CIVILIZATION 

TALES  OF  THE  ORIENT 


ELLEN  N.LAMOTTB 


GIFT  OF 
HORACE  W.  CARPENTER 


* 


CIVILIZATION 

TALES  OF  THE  ORIENT 
ELLEN  N.  LA  MOTTE 


CIVILIZATION 

TALES  OF  THE  ORIENT 


BY 

ELLEN  N.  LA  MOTTE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BACKWASH  OP  WAB,"  ETC 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  stories  "Under  A  Wineglass," 
"Homesick"  and  "The  Yellow  Streak" 
are  published  by  courtesy  of  the  Century 
Magazine. 


0""    4     '"t 

o  l*J 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  YELLOW  STREAK  ........................ 

II  33 

ON  THE  HEIGHTS  ........................ 

III  65 

HOMESICK  ................................. 


93 
CIVILIZATION  .......................... 

MISUNDERSTANDING  .......................... 


141 

PRISONERS  ....................... 


177 

CANTERBURY  CHIMES  ....................... 

VIII 

UNDER  A  WINEGLASS  .........................     "-  '  ' 

IX  235 

CHOLERA  ........................ 

^  247 

COSMIC  JUSTICE  .............................. 


[••i 
vn] 


THE  YELLOW  STREAK 


THE  YELLOW  STREAK 

HE  came  out  to  Shanghai  a  generation  ago, 
in  those  days  when  Shanghai  was  not  as  re 
spectable  as  it  is  now — whatever  that  says  to 
you.  It  was,  of  course,  a  great  change  from 
Home,  and  its  crude  pleasures  and  crude  com 
panions  gave  him  somewhat  of  a  shock.  For 
he  was  of  decent  stock,  with  a  certain  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things,  and  the  beach-combers, 
adventurers,  rough  traders  and  general  riff 
raff  of  the  China  Coast,  gathered  in  Shanghai, 
did  not  offer  him  the  society  he  desired.  He 
was  often  obliged  to  associate  with  them,  how 
ever,  more  or  less,  in  a  business  way,  for  his 
humble  position  as  minor  clerk  in  a  big  cor 
poration  entailed  certain  responsibilities  out 
of  hours,  and  this  responsibility  he  could  not 
shirk,  for  fear  of  losing  his  position.  Thus, 
by  these  acts  of  civility,  more  or  less  enforced, 
he  was  often  led  into  a  loose  sort  of  intimacy, 


CIVILIZATION 


into  companionship  with  people  who  were  dis 
tasteful  to  his  rather  fastidious  nature.  But 
what  can  you  expect  on  the  China  Coast?  He 
was  rather  an  upright  sort  of  young  man,  deli 
cate  and  abstemious,  and  the  East  being  new 
to  him,  shocked  him.  He  took  pleasure  in 
walking  along  the  Bund,  marvelling  at  the 
great  river  full  of  the  ships  of  the  world,  mar 
velling  at  the  crowds  from  the  four  corners  of 
the  world  who  disembarked  from  these  ships 
and  scattered  along  the  broad  and  sunny  thor 
oughfare,  seeking  amusements  of  a  primitive 
sort.  But  in  these  amusements  he  took  no 
part.  For  himself,  a  gentleman,  they  did  not 
attract.  Not  for  long.  The  sing-song  girls 
and  the  "American  girls"  were  coarse,  vulgar 
creatures  and  he  did  not  like  them.  It  was 
no  better  in  the  back  streets — bars  and  saloons, 
gaming  houses  and  opium  divans,  all  the  coarse 
paraphernalia  of  pleasure,  as  the  China  Coast 
understood  the  word,  left  him  unmoved. 
These  things  had  little  influence  upon  him,  and 
the  men  who  liked  them  overmuch,  who  chaffed 
him  because  of  his  squeamishness  and  distaste 
of  them,  were  not  such  friends  as  he  needed  in 
his  life.  However,  there  were  few  alterna- 

[12] 


THE   YELLOW    STKEAK 


tives.  There  was  almost  nothing  else  for  it. 
Companionship  of  this  kind,  or  the  absolute 
loneliness  of  a  hotel  bedroom  were  the  alterna 
tives  which  confronted  him.  He  had  very  lit 
tle  money, — just  a  modest  salary — therefore 
the  excitement  of  trading,  of  big,  shady  deals, 
said  nothing  to  him.  He  went  to  the  races, 
a  shy  onlooker.  He  could  not  afford  to  risk 
his  little  salary  in  betting.  Above  all  things, 
he  was  cautious.  Consequently  life  did  not 
offer  him  much  outside  of  office  hours,  and  in 
office  hours  it  offered  him  nothing  at  all.  You 
will  see  from  this  that  he  was  a  very  limited 
person,  incapable  of  expansion.  Now  as  a 
rule,  life  in  the  Far  East  does  not  have  this 
effect  upon  young  men.  It  is  generally  stim 
ulating  and  exciting,  even  to  the  most  unimag 
inative,  while  the  novelty  of  it,  the  utter  free 
dom  and  lack  of  restraint  and  absence  of  con 
ventional  public  opinion  is  such  that  usually, 
within  a  very  short  time,  one  becomes  unfitted 
to  return  to  a  more  formal  society.  In  the 
old  days  of  a  generation  ago,  life  on  the  China 
Coast  was  probably  much  more  exciting  and 
inciting  than  it  is  to-day,  although  to-day,  in 
all  conscience,  the  checks  are  off.  But  our 

[13] 


CIVILIZATION 


young  man  was  rather  fine,  rather  extraordi 
narily  fastidious,  and  moreover,  he  had  a  very 
healthy  young  appetite  for  the  normal.  The 
offscourings  of  the  world  and  of  society  rolled 
into  Shanghai  with  the  inflow  of  each  yellow 
tide  of  the  Yangtzse,  and  somehow,  he  resented 
that  deposit.  He  resented  it,  because  from 
that  deposit  he  must  pick  out  his  friends. 
Therefore  instead  of  accepting  the  situation, 
instead  of  drinking  himself  into  acquiescence, 
or  drugging  himself  into  acquiescence,  he 
found  himself  quite  resolved  to  remain  firmly 
and  consciously  outside  of  it.  In  consequence 
of  which  decision  he  remained  homesick  and 
lonely,  and  his  presence  in  the  community  was 
soon  forgotten  or  overlooked.  Shy  and  prig 
gish,  he  continued  to  lead  his  lonely  life.  In 
his  solitary  walks  along  the  Bund,  there  was 
no  one  to  take  his  arm  and  snigger  suggestions 
into  his  ear,  and  lead  him  into  an  open  door 
way  where  the  suggestions  could  be  carried  out. 
He  had  come  out  to  the  East  for  a  long  term 
of  years,  and  the  prospect  of  these  interminable 
years  made  his  position  worse.  Not  that  it 
shook  his  decision  to  remain  aloof  and  de 
tached  from  the  call  of  the  East — his  decision 

[14] 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK 


was  not  shaken  in  the  slightest,  which  seemed 
almost  a  pity. 

Like  all  foreigners,  of  course,  he  had  his  own 
opinions  of  the  Chinese.  They  were  an  in 
ferior,  yellow  race,  and  therefore  despicable. 
But  having  also  a  firm,  unshakable  opinion  of 
his  own  race,  especially  of  those  individuals  of 
his  race  in  which  a  yellow  streak  predominated, 
he  held  the  Chinese  in  no  way  inferior  to  these 
yellow-streaked  individuals.  Which  argues 
broadmindedness  and  f  airmindedness.  Of  the 
two,  perhaps,  he  thought  the  Chinese  prefer 
able — under  certain  circumstances.  Yet  he 
knew  them  to  be  irritating  in  business  dealings, 
corrupt,  dishonest — on  the  whole  he  felt  pro 
found  scorn  for  them.  But  as  they  had  been 
made  to  suit  the  purposes  of  the  ruling  races 
of  the  world — such,  for  example,  as  himself, 
untainted  by  a  yellow  streak — he  had  to  that 
extent,  at  least,  succumbed  to  the  current  opin 
ions  of  Shanghai.  He  resolved  to  make  use 
of  them — of  one,  at  least,  in  particular. 

He  wanted  a  home.  Wanted  it  desperately. 
He  wanted  to  indulge  his  quiet,  domestic 
tastes,  to  live  in  peace  a  normal,  peaceful  life, 
far  apart  from  the  glittering  trivialities  of  the 

[15] 


CIVILIZATION 


back  streets  of  the  town.  He  wanted  a  home 
of  his  own,  a  refuge  to  turn  to  at  the  end  of 
each  long,  monotonous  day.  You  see,  he  was 
not  an  adventurer,  a  gambler,  a  wastrel,  and 
he  wanted  a  quiet  home  with  a  companion  to 
greet  him,  to  take  care  of  him,  to  serve  him  in 
many  ways.  There  was  no  girl  in  England 
whom  he  wanted  to  come  out  to  marry  him. 
Had  there  been  such  a  girl,  he  would  probably 
not  have  allowed  her  to  come.  He  was  a  de 
cent  young  man,  and  the  climate  was  such,  here 
on  the  China  Coast,  that  few  women  could 
stand  it  without  more  of  the  comforts  and  lux 
ury  than  his  small  salary  could  have  paid  for. 
So  finally,  at  the  end  of  a  year  or  two,  he  got 
himself  the  home  he  wanted,  in  partnership 
with  a  little  Chinese  girl  who  answered  every 
purpose.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her,  in  any 
exalted  sense,  but  she  supplied  certain  needs, 
and  at  the  end  of  his  long  days,  he  had  the  ref 
uge  that  he  craved.  She  kept  him  from  going 
to  the  bad. 

His   few  friends — friends,  however,   being 
hardly  the  word  to  apply  to  his  few  casual  ac 
quaintances, — were  greatly  surprised  at  this. 
Such  an  establishment  seemed  to  them  the  last 
[16] 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK 


sort  of  thing  a  man  of  this  type  would  have 
gone  in  for.  He  had  seemed  such  a  decent 
sort,  too.  Really,  a  few  professed  to  be  quite 
shocked — they  said  you  never  knew  how  the 
East  would  affect  a  person,  especially  a  de 
cent  person.  For  themselves,  they  preferred 
looser  bonds,  with  less  responsibility.  They 
said  this  to  each  other  between  drinks,  and 
there  was  then,  as  now,  much  drinking  in 
Shanghai.  A  few  even  said  this  to  each  other 
quite  seriously,  as  they  lay  in  pairs  on  opium 
divans,  smoking  opium,  with  little  Chinese 
girls  filling  their  pipes — girls  who  would  after 
wards  be  as  complaisant  as  was  required.  One 
man  who  had  lost  his  last  cent  at  the  gambling 
wheels,  professed  great  astonishment  at  this 
departure  from  the  usual  track,  a  departure 
quite  unnecessary  since  there  were  so  many 
ways  of  amusing  oneself  out  here  in  the  East. 
Of  course  such  unions  were  common  enough, 
heaven  knows — there  was  nothing  unusual 
about  it.  But  then  such  fastidious  people  did 
not  as  a  rule  go  in  for  them.  It  was  not  the 
menage,  it  was  the  fact  that  this  particular 
young  man  had  set  up  such,  that  caused  the 
comment.  The  comment,  however,  was  short- 

[17] 


CIVILIZATION 


lived.  There  was  too  much  else  to  think 
about. 

Rogers  liked  his  new  life  very  much.  Never 
for  a  moment  did  he  think  of  marrying  the  girl. 
That,  of  course,  never  dawned  on  him.  Recol 
lect,  he  was  in  all  things  decent  and  correct, 
and  such  a  step  would  have  been  suicidal.  Un 
til  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  Home,  she  was 
merely  being  made  use  of — and  to  be  useful 
to  the  ruling  races  is  the  main  object  in  life 
for  the  Chinese.  They  exist  for  the  profit  and 
benefit  of  the  superior  races,  and  this  is  the  cor 
rect,  standard  opinion  of  their  value,  and  there 
are  few  on  the  China  Coast,  from  Hongkong 
upwards,  who  will  disagree  with  it. 

In  time,  a  son  was  born  to  Rogers,  and  for 
a  while  it  filled  him  with  dismay.  It  was  a 
contingency  he  had  not  foreseen,  a  responsi 
bility  he  had  not  contemplated,  had  not  even 
thought  he  could  afford.  But  in  time  he  grew 
used  to  the  boy,  and,  in  a  vague  way,  fond  of 
him.  He  disturbed  him  very  little,  and 
counted  very  little  in  his  life,  after  all.  Later, 
as  the  years  rolled  by,  he  began  to  feel  some 
responsibility  towards  the  child.  He  despised 
half-breeds,  naturally — every  one  does.  They 

[18] 


THE   YELLOW   STREAK 


are  worse  than  natives,  having  inherited  the 
weakness  of  both  ancestries.  He  was  sin 
cerely  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  whole  business, 
when,  at  the  end  of  about  fifteen  years,  he  was 
called  home  to  England.  It  had  all  served  his 
purpose,  this  establishment  of  his,  and  thanks 
to  it,  he  was  still  clean  and  straight,  undemor- 
alised  by  the  insidious,  undermining  influences 
of  the  East.  When  he  returned  to  his  native 
land,  he  could  find  himself  a  home  upon  ortho 
dox  lines  and  live  happily  ever  afterwards. 
Before  he  felt  Shanghai,  he  sent  his  little  Chi 
nese  girl,  a  woman  long  ago,  of  course,  back 
to  her  native  province  in  the  interior,  well  sup 
plied  with  money  and  with  the  household  fur 
niture.  For  the  boy  he  had  arranged  every 
thing.  He  was  to  be  educated  in  some  good, 
commercial  way,  fitted  to  take  care  of  himself 
in  the  future.  Through  his  lawyer,  he  set 
aside  a  certain  sum  for  this  purpose,  to  be  ex 
pended  annually  until  the  lad  was  old  enough 
to  earn  his  own  living.  In  all  ways  Rogers 
was  thoughtful  and  decent,  far-sighted  and 
provident.  No  one  could  accuse  him  of  self 
ishness.  He  did  not  desert  his  woman,  turn 
her  adrift  unprovided  for,  as  many  another 

[19] 


CIVILIZATION 


would  have  done.  No,  thank  heavens,  he 
thought  to  himself  as  he  leaned  over  the  rail 
of  the  ship,  fast  making  its  way  down  the  yel 
low  tide,  he  had  still  preserved  his  sense  of  hon 
our.  So  many  men  go  to  pieces  out  in  the 
East,  but  he,  somehow,  had  managed  to  keep 
himself  clear  and  clean. 

Rogers  drops  out  of  the  tale  at  this  point, 
and  as  the  ship  slips  out  of  sight  down  the 
lower  reaches  of  the  Yangtzse,  so  does  he  dis 
appear  from  this  story.  It  is  to  the  boy  that 
we  must  now  turn  our  attention,  the  half-caste 
boy  who  had  received  such  a  heritage  of  de 
cency  and  honour  from  one  side  of  his  house. 
In  passing,  let  it  be  also  said  that  his  mother, 
too,  was  a  very  decent  little  woman,  in  a  hum 
ble,  Chinese  way,  and  that  his  inheritance  from 
this  despised  Chinese  side  was  not  discredit 
able.  His  mother  had  gone  obediently  back 
to  the  provinces,  as  had  been  arranged,  the 
house  passed  into  other  hands,  and  the  half- 
caste  boy  was  sent  off  to  school  somewhere,  to 
finish  his  education.  Being  young,  he  con 
soled  himself  after  a  time  for  the  loss  of  his 
home,  its  sudden  and  complete  collapse.  The 

[20] 


THE   YELLOW   STREAK 


memory  of  that  home,  however,  left  deep  traces 
upon  him. 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  inordinately  proud 
of  his  white  blood.  He  did  not  know  that  it 
had  cost  his  guardian  considerable  searching 
to  find  a  school  where  white  blood  was  not  ob 
jected  to — when  running  in  Chinese  veins. 
His  schoolmates,  of  European  blood,  were  less 
tolerant  than  the  school  authorities.  He  there 
fore  soon  found  his  white  blood  to  be  a  curse. 
There  is  no  need  to  go  into  this  in  detail.  For1 
every  one  who  knows  the  East,  knows  the  con 
tempt  that  is  shown  a  half-breed,  a  Eurasian. 
Neither  fish,  flesh  nor  fowl — an  object  of  gen 
eral  distrust  and  disgust.  Oh,  useful  enough 
in  business  circles,  since  they  can  usually  speak 
both  languages,  which  is,  of  course,  an  advan 
tage.  But  socially,  impossible.  In  time,  he 
passed  into  a  banking  house,  where  certain  of 
his  qualities  were  appreciated,  but  outside  of 
banking  hours  he  was  confronted  with  a  worse 
problem  than  that  which  had  beset  his  father. 
He  felt  himself  too  good  for  the  Chinese.  His 
mother's  people  did  not  appeal  to  him,  he  did 
riot  like  their  manners  and  customs.  Above  all 
things  he  wanted  to  be  English,  like  his  father, 

[21] 


CIVILIZATION 


whom  in  his  imagination  he  had  magnified  into 
a  sort  of  god.  But  his  father's  people  would 
have  none  of  him.  Even  the  clerks  in  the  bank 
only  spoke  to  him  on  necessary  business,  dur 
ing  business  hours,  and  cut  him  dead  on  the 
street.  As  for  the  roysterers  and  beach-comb 
ers  gathered  in  the  bars  of  the  hotels,  they 
made  him  feel,  low  as  they  were,  that  they  were 
not  yet  sunk  low  enough  to  enjoy  such  com 
panionship  as  his.  It  was  very  depressing 
and  made  him  feel  very  sad.  He  did  not  at 
first  feel  any  resentment  or  bitterness  towards 
his  absent  father,  disappeared  forever  from  his 
horizon.  But  it  gave  him  a  profound  sense  of 
depression.  True,  there  were  many  other 
half-breeds  for  him  to  associate  with — the 
China  Coast  is  full  of  such — but  they,  like  him 
self,  were  ambitious  for  the  society  of  the 
white  man.  What  he  craved  was  the  society 
of  the  white  man,  to  which,  from  one  side  of 
his  house,  he  was  so  justly  entitled.  He  was 
not  a  very  noticeable  half-breed  either,  for  his 
features  were  regular,  and  he  was  not  darker 
than  is  compatible  with  a  good  sunburn.  But 
just  the  same,  it  was  unmistakable,  this  touch 
of  the  tar  brush,  to  the  discriminating  Euro- 

[22] 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK 


pean  eye.  He  seemed  inordinately  slow  wit- 
ted — it  took  him  a  long  time  to  realise  his  sit 
uation.  He  argued  it  out  with  himself  con 
stantly,  and  could  arrive  at  no  logical  explana 
tion.  If  his  mother,  pure  Chinese,  was  good 
enough  for  his  father,  why  was  not  he,  only 
half-Chinese,  good  enough  for  his  father's  peo 
ple?  Especially  in  view  of  the  fact  that  his 
father's  history  was  by  no  means  uncommon. 
His  father  and  his  kind  had  left  behind  them 
a  trail  of  half-breeds — thousands  of  them.  If 
his  mother  had  been  good  enough  for  his 

father His   thoughts   went   round   and 

round  in  a  puzzled,  enquiring  circle,  and  still 
the  problem  remained  unsolved.  For  he  was 
very  young,  and  not  as  yet  experienced. 

He  was  well  educated.  Why  had  his  father 
seen  to  that?  And  he  was  well  provided  for, 
and  was  now  making  money  on  his  own  ac 
count.  He  bought  very  good  clothes  with  his 
money,  and  went  in  the  bar  of  one  of  the  big 
hotels,  beautifully  dressed,  and  took  a  drink  at 
the  bar  and  looked  round  to  see  who  would 
drink  with  him.  He  could  never  catch  a  re 
sponsive  eye,  so  was  forced  to  drink  alone.  He 
hated  drinking,  anyway.  In  many  ways  he 

[23] 


CIVILIZATION 


was  like  his  father.  The  petty  clerks  who 
were  at  the  office  failed  to  see  him  at  the  race 
course.  He  hated  the  races,  anyway.  In 
many  respects  he  was  like  his  father.  But  he 
was  far  more  lonely  than  his  father  had  ever 
been.  Thus  he  went  about  very  lonely,  too 
proud  to  associate  with  the  straight  Chinese, 
his  mother's  people,  and  humbled  and  snubbed 
by  the  people  of  his  father's  race. 

He  was  twenty  years  old  when  the  Great 
War  upset  Europe.  Shanghai  was  a  mass  of 
excitement.  The  newspapers  were  ablaze. 
Men  were  needed  for  the  army.  One  of  the 
clerks  in  the  office  resigned  his  post  and  went 
home  to  enlist.  In  the  first  rush  of  enthusi 
asm,  many  other  young  Englishmen  in  many 
other  offices  resigned  their  positions  and  en 
listed,  although  not  a  large  number  of  them 
did  so.  For  it  was  inconceivable  that  the  war 
could  last  more  than  a  few  weeks — when  the 
first  P.  and  O.  boat  reached  London,  it  would 
doubtless  all  be  over.  During  the  excitement 
of  those  early  days,  some  of  the  office  force  so> 
far  forgot  themselves  as  to  speak  to  him  on 
the  subject.  They  asked  his  opinion,  what  he 
thought  of  it.  They  did  not  ask  the  shroff,  the 

[24] 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK 


Chinese  accountant,  what  he  thought  of  it. 
But  they  asked  him.  His  heart  warmed! 
They  were  speaking  to  him  at  last  as  an  equal, 
as  one  who  could  understand,  who  knew  things 
English,  by  reason  of  his  English  blood. 

So  the  Autumn  came,  and  still  the  papers 
continued  full  of  appeals  for  men.  No  more 
of  the  office  force  enlisted,  and  their  manner 
towards  him,  of  cold  indifference,  was  resumed 
again  after  the  one  outburst  of  friendliness  oc 
casioned  by  the  first  excitement.  Still  the 
papers  contained  their  appeals  for  men.  But 
the  men  in  the  other  offices  round  town  did  not 
seem  to  enlist  either.  He  marvelled  a  little. 
Doubtless,  however,  England  was  so  great  and 
so  invincible  that  she  did  not  need  them.  But 
why  then  these  appeals  ?  Soon  he  learned  that 
these  young  men  could  not  be  spared  from 
their  offices  in  the  Far  East.  They  were  in 
dispensable  to  the  trade  of  the  mighty  Em 
pire.  Still,  he  remained  puzzled.  One  day, 
in  a  fit  of  boldness,  he  ventured  to  ask  the 
young  man  at  the  next  stool  why  he  did  not 
go.  According  to  the  papers,  England  was 
clamouring  loudly  for  her  sons. 

"Enlist!"  exclaimed  the  young  Englishman 
[25] 


CIVILIZATION 


angrily,  colouring  red.  "Why  don't  you  enlist 
yourself?  You  say  you're  an  Englishman,  I 
believe!" 

The  half-breed  did  not  see  the  sneer.  A 
great  flood  of  light  filled  his  soul.  He  was 
English !  One  half  of  him  was  English !  Eng 
land  was  calling  for  her  own — and  he  was  one 
of  her  own!  He  would  answer  the  call.  A 
high,  hot  wave  of  exultation  passed  over  him. 
His  spirit  was  uplifted,  exalted.  The  glori 
ous  opportunity  had  come  to  prove  himself — 
to  answer  the  call  of  the  blood!  Why  had  he 
never  thought  of  it  before ! 

For  days  afterwards  he  went  about  in  a 
dream  of  excitement,  his  soul  dwelling  on  lofty 
heights.  He  asked  to  be  released  from  his  po 
sition,  and  his  request  was  granted.  The  man 
ager  shook  hands  with  him  and  wished  him 
luck.  His  brother  clerks  nodded  to  him,  on 
the  day  of  his  departure,  and  wished  him  a 
good  voyage.  They  did  not  shake  hands  with 
him,  and  were  not  enthusiastic,  as  he  hoped 
they  would  be.  His  spirits  were  a  little 
dashed  by  their  indifference.  However,  they 
had  always  slighted  him,  so  it  was  nothing  un 
usual.  It  would  be  different  after  he  had 

[26] 


THE   YELLOW   STREAK 


proved  himself — it  would  be  all  right  after  he 
had  proved  himself,  had  proved  to  himself  and 
to  them,  that  English  blood  ran  in  his  veins, 
and  that  he  was  answering  the  call  of  the  blood. 

His  adventures  in  the  war  do  not  concern 
us.  They  concern  us  no  more  than  the  gap  in 
the  office,  caused  by  his  departure,  concerned 
his  employer  or  his  brother  clerks.  Within  a 
few  weeks,  his  place  was  taken  by  another 
young  Englishman,  just  out,  and  the  office 
routine  went  on  as  usual,  and  no  one  gave  a 
thought  to  the  young  recruit  who  had  gone  to 
the  war.  Just  one  comment  was  made. 
"Rather  cheeky  of  him,  you  know,  fancying 
himself  an  Englishman."  Then  the  matter 
dropped.  Gambling  and  polo  and  golf  and 
cocktails  claimed  the  attention  of  those  who  re 
mained,  and  life  in  Shanghai  continued  normal 
as  usual. 

In  due  course  of  time,  his  proving  completed, 
he  returned  to  his  native  land.  As  the  ship 
dropped  anchor  in  the  lower  harbour,  his  heart 
beat  fast  with  a  curious  emotion.  An  unex 
pected  emotion,  Chinese  in  its  reactions.  The 
sight  of  the  yellow,  muddy  Yangtzse  moved 
him  strangely.  It  was  his  river.  It  belonged, 

[27] 


CIVILIZATION 


somehow,  to  him.  He  stood,  a  lonely  figure, 
on  the  deck,  clad  in  ill-fitting,  civilian  clothes, 
not  nearly  so  jaunty  as  those  he  used  to  wear 
before  he  went  away.  His  clothes  fell  away 
from  him  strangely,  for  illness  had  wasted  him, 
and  his  collar  stood  out  stiffly  from  his  scrawny 
neck.  One  leg  was  gone,  shot  away  above  the 
knee,  and  he  hobbled  painfully  down  the  gang 
plank  and  on  to  the  tender,  using  his  crutches 
very  awkwardly. 

The  great,  brown,  muddy  Yangtzse!  His 
own  river!  The  ships  of  the  world  lay  an 
chored  in  the  harbour,  the  ships  of  all  the 
world!  The  tender  made  its  way  upward 
against  the  rushing  tide,  and  great,  clumsy 
junks  floated  downstream.  As  they  neared  the 
dock,  crowds  of  bobbing  sampans,  with  square, 
painted  eyes — so  that  they  might  see  where 
they  were  going — came  out  and  surrounded 
them.  A  miserable  emotion  overcame  him. 
They  were  his  junks — he  understood  them. 
They  were  his  sampans,  with  their  square, 
painted  eyes — eyes  that  the  foreigners  pointed 
to  and  laughed  at!  He  understood  them  all — 
they  were  all  his ! 

Presently  he  found  himself  upon  the 
[28] 


THE  YELLOW   STREAK 


crowded  Bund,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  men 
and  women,  laughing,  joyous  foreigners,  who 
had  come  to  meet  their  own  from  overseas. 
Xo  one  was  there  to  meet  him,  but  it  was  not 
surprising.  He  had  sent  word  to  no  one,  be 
cause  he  had  no  one  to  send  word  to.  He  was 
undecided  where  to  go,  and  he  hobbled  along 
a  little,  to  get  out  of  the  crowd,  and  to  plan  a 
little  what  he  should  do.  As  he  stood  there 
undecided,  waiting  a  little,  hanging  upon  his 
crutches,  two  young  men  came  along,  sleek, 
well-fed,  laughing.  He  recognised  them  at 
once — two  of  his  old  colleagues  in  the  office. 
They  glanced  in  his  direction,  looked  down  on 
his  pinned-up  trouser  leg,  caught  his  eye,  and 
then,  without  sign  of  recognition,  passed  on. 
He  was  still  a  half-breed. 


[29] 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 


II 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

RIVERS  made  his  way  to  China  many  years 
ago.  He  was  an  adventurer,  a  ne'er-do-weel, 
and  China  in  those  days  was  just  about  good 
enough  for  him.  Since  he  was  English,  it 
might  have  seemed  more  natural  for  him  to 
have  gone  to  India,  or  the  Straits  Settlements, 
or  one  of  the  other  colonies  of  the  mighty  Em 
pire,  but  for  some  reason,  China  drew  him. 
He  was  more  likely  to  meet  his  own  sort  in 
China,  where  no  questions  would  be  asked. 
And  he  did  meet  his  own  sort — people  just  like 
himself,  other  adventurers  and  ne'er-do-weels, 
and  their  companionship  was  no  great  benefit 
to  him.  So  he  drifted  about  all  over  China, 
around  the  coast  towns  and  back  into  the  in 
terior,  to  and  fro,  searching  for  opportunities 
to  make  his  fortune.  But  being  the  kind  of 
man  he  was,  fortune  seemed  always  to  elude 
him.  In  course  of  time  he  became  rather  well 

[33] 


CIVILIZATION 


known  on  the  China  Coast — known  as  a  beach 
comber.  And  even  when  he  went  into  the  re 
mote,  interior  province  of  Szechuan,  where  he 
lived  a  precarious,  hand-to-mouth  existence  for 
several  years,  he  was  also  known  as  a  beach 
comber.  Which  shows  that  being  two  thou 
sand  miles  inland  does  not  alter  the  character 
istics  associated  with  that  name. 

Personally,  he  was  not  a  bad  sort.  Men 
liked  him,  that  is,  men  of  his  own  type.  Some 
of  them  succeeded  better  than  he  did,  and 
afterwards  referred  to  him  as  "poor  old  Riv 
ers,"  although  he  was  not  really  old  at  that 
time.  Neither  was  he  really  old  either,  when 
he  died,  several  years  later.  He  was  rather 
interesting  too,  in  a  way,  since  he  had  experi 
enced  many  adventures  in  the  course  of  his 
wanderings  in  remote  parts  of  the  country, 
which  adventures  were  rather  tellable.  Pie 
even  knew  a  lot  about  China,  too,  which  is  more 
than  most  people  do  who  have  lived  in  China 
many  years.  Had  he  been  of  that  sort,  he 
might  have  written  rather  valuable  books,  con 
taining  his  shrewd  observations  and  intimate, 
underhand  knowledge  of  political  and  eco 
nomic  conditions.  But  he  was  emphatically 

[34] 


ON   THE   HEIGHTS 


not  of  that  sort,  so  continued  to  lead  his  dis 
reputable,  roving  life  for  a  period  of  ten  years. 
At  the  end  of  which  time  he  met  a  plaintive 
little  Englishwoman,  just  out  from  Home,  and 
she,  knowing  nothing  whatever  of  Rivers,  but 
being  taken  with  his  glib  tongue  and  rather 
handsome  person,  married  him. 

As  the  wife  of  a  confirmed  beach-comber  she 
had  rather  a  hard  time  of  it.  But  for  all  that 
she  was  so  plaintive  and  so  supine,  there  was  a 
certain  quality  of  force  within  her,  and  she  in 
sisted  upon  some  provision  for  the  future. 
They  were  living  in  the  interior  at  that  time, 
not  too  far  in,  and  Rivers  had  come  down  to 
Shanghai  to  negotiate  some  transactions  for  a 
certain  firm.  He  could  do  things  like  that  well 
enough  when  he  wanted  to,  as  he  had  a  certain 
ability,  and  a  knowledge  of  two  or  three  Chi 
nese  dialects,  and  these  things  he  could  put  to 
account  when  he  felt  like  it.  Aided  by  his 
wife,  stimulated  by  her  quiet,  subtle  insistence, 
he  put  through  the  business  entrusted  to  him, 
and  the  business  promised  success.  Which 
meant  that  the  interior  town  in  which  they 
found  themselves  would  soon  be  opened  to  for 
eign  trade.  And  as  a  new  trade  centre,  how- 

[35] 


CIVILIZATION 


ever  small,  Europeans  would  come  to  the  town 
from  time  to  time  and  require  a  night's  lodg 
ing.  Here  was  where  Mrs.  Rivers  saw  her 
chance  and  took  it.  In  her  simple,  wholly  su 
pine  way,  she  realised  that  there  were  nothing 
but  Chinese  inns  in  the  place,  and  therefore  it 
would  be  a  good  opportunity  to  open  a  hotel 
for  foreigners.  Numbers  of  foreigners  would 
soon  be  arriving,  thanks  to  Rivers'  efforts,  and 
as  he  was  now  out  of  employment  (having  gone 
on  a  prolonged  spree  to  celebrate  his  success 
and  been  discharged  in  consequence),  there 
still  remained  an  opportunity  for  helping  for 
eigners  in  another  way.  Personally,  he  would 
have  preferred  to  open  a  gambling  house,  but 
the  risks  were  too  great.  At  that  time  the 
town  was  not  yet  fully  civilized  or  European- 
ised,  and  he  realised  that  he  would  encounter 
considerable  opposition  to  this  scheme  from  the 
Chinese — and  he  was  without  sufficient  influ 
ence  or  protection  to  oppose  them.  His  wife, 
therefore,  insisted  upon  the  hotel,  and  he  saw 
her  point.  She  did  not  make  it  in  behalf  of 
her  own  welfare,  or  the  welfare  of  possible  fu 
ture  children.  She  merely  made  it  as  an  op 
portunity  that  a  man  of  his  parts  ought  not  to 

[36] 


ON    THE    HEIGHTS 


miss.  He  had  made  a  few  hundred  dollars  out 
of  his  deal,  and  fortunately,  had  not  spent  all 
of  it  on  his  grand  carouse.  There  was  enough 
left  for  the  new  enterprise. 

So  they  took  a  temple.  Buddhism  being  in 
a  decadent  state  in  China,  and  the  temples  be 
ing  in  a  still  further  state  of  decay,  it  was  an 
easy  matter  to  arrange  things  with  the  priests. 
The  temple  selected  was  a  large,  rambling  af 
fair,  with  many  compounds  and  many  rooms, 
situated  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  near  the 
newly  opened  offices  of  the  newly  established 
firm,  the  nucleus  of  this  coming  trade  centre 
of  China.  A  hundred  dollars  Mex.  rented  it 
for  a  year,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  spent  many  days 
sweeping  and  cleaning  it,  while  Rivers  himself 
helped  occasionally,  and  hired  several  coolies 
to  assist  in  the  work  as  well.  The  monks' 
houses  were  washed  and  whitewashed;  clean, 
new  mats  spread  on  the  floors,  cheap  European 
cots  installed,  with  wash  basins,  jugs  and 
chairs,  and  other  accessories  such  as  are  not 
found  in  native  inns.  The  main  part  of  the 
temple  still  remained  open  for  worship,  with 
the  dusty  gods  on  the  altars  and  the  dingy 
hangings  in  place  as  usual.  The  faithful,  such 

[37] 


CIVILIZATION 


as  there  were,  still  had  access  to  it,  and  the 
priests  lived  in  one  of  the  compounds,  but  all 
the  other  compounds  were  given  over  to  Riv 
ers  for  his  new  enterprise.  Thus  the  preju 
dices  of  the  townspeople  were  not  excited,  the 
old  priests  cleared  a  hundred  dollars  Mex., 
while  the  new  tenants  were  at  liberty  to  pur 
sue  their  venture  to  its  most  profitable  limits. 
Mrs.  Rivers  managed  the  housekeeping,  as 
sisted  by  a  capable  Chinese  «cook,  and  Rivers 
had  a  sign  painted,  in  English,  bearing  the 
words  "Temple  Hotel."  Fortunately  it  was 
summertime,  so  there  were  no  expenses  for  ar 
tificial  heat,  an  item  which  would  have  taxed 
their  small  capital  beyond  its  limits. 

Two  weeks  after  the  Temple  Hotel  swung 
out  its  sign,  the  first  guest  arrived,  the  man 
ager  of  the  new  company.  He  came  to  town 
reluctantly,  dreading  the  discomforts  of  a  Chi 
nese  inn,  and  bringing  with  him  his  food  and 
bedding  roll,  intending  to  sleep  in  his  cart  in 
the  courtyard.  Consequently  he  was  greatly 
pleased  and  greatly  surprised  to  find  a  Euro 
pean  hotel,  and  he  stayed  there  ten  days  in 
perfect  comfort.  Mrs.  Rivers  treated  him 
royally — lost  money  on  him,  in  fact,  but  it  was 

[38] 


ON   THE   HEIGHTS 


a  good  investment.  At  parting,  the  manager 
told  Rivers  that  his  wife  was  a  marvel,  as  in-v 
deed  she  was.  Then  he  went  down  to  Shang 
hai  and  spread  the  news  among  his  friends,  and 
from  that  time  on,  the  success  of  the  Temple 
Hotel  was  assured.  True,  Rivers  still  con 
tinued  to  be  a  good  fellow,  that  is,  he  contin 
ued  to  drink  pretty  .hard,  but  his  guests  over 
looked  it  and  his  wife  was  used  to  it,  and  the 
establishment  continued  to  flourish.  In  a  year 
or  two  the  railroad  came  along,  and  a  period 
of  great  prosperity  set  in  all  round. 

Like  most  foreigners,  Rivers -had  a  profound 
contempt  for  the  Chinese.  They  were  inferior 
beings,  made  for  servants  and  underlings,  and 
to  serve  the  dominant  race.  He  was  at  no 
pains  to  conceal  this  dislike,  and  backed  it  up 
by  blows  and  curses  as  occasion  required.  In 
this  he  was  not  alone,  however,  nor  in  any  way 
peculiar.  Others  of  his  race  feel  the  same  con 
tempt  for  the  Chinese  and  manifest  it  by  sim 
ilar  demonstrations.  Lying  drunk  under  a 
walnut  tree  of  the  main  courtyard,  Rivers  had 
only  to  raise  his  eyes  to  his  blue-coated,  pig- 
tailed  coolies,  to  be  immensely  aware  of  his 
superiority.  Kwong,  his  number-one  boy, 

[39] 


CIVILIZATION 


used  to  survey  him  thus  stretched  upon  the 
ground,  while  Rivers,  helpless,  would  explain 
to  Kwong  what  deep  and  profound  contempt 
he  felt  for  all  those  who  had  not  his  advan 
tages — the  great,  God-given  advantage  of  a 
white  skin.  The  lower  down  one  is  on  the  so 
cial  and  moral  plane,  the  more  necessary  to 
emphasize  the  distinction  between  the  races. 
Kwong  used  to  listen,  imperturbable,  thinking 
his  own  thoughts.  When  his  master  beat  him, 
he  submitted.  His  impassive  face  expressed 
no  emotion,  neither  assent  nor  dissent. 

Except  for  incidents  like  these,  of  some  fre 
quency,  things  went  on  very  well  with  Rivers 
for  three  or  four  years,  and  then  something 
happened.  He  had  barely  time  to  bundle  his 
wife  and  children  aboard  an  English  ship  ly 
ing  in  harbour  and  send  them  down  river  to 
Shanghai,  before  the  revolution  broke  out. 
He  himself  stayed  behind  to  see  it  through,  liv 
ing  in  the  comparative  security  of  his  Consul 
ate,  for  the  outbreak  was  not  directed  against 
foreigners  and  he  was  safe  enough  outside  the 
city,  in  the  newly  acquired  concession.  On 
this  particular  day,  when  things  had  reached 
their  climax  and  the  rebels  were  sacking  and 

[40] 


ON   THE    HEIGHTS 


burning  the  town,  Rivers  leaned  over  the  ram 
parts  of  the  city  wall  and  watched  them.  The 
whole  Tartar  City  was  in  flames,  including  the 
Temple  Hotel.  He  watched  it  burn  with  sat 
isfaction.  When  things  quieted  down,  he 
would  put  in  his  claim  for  an  indemnity.  The 
Chinese  government,  whichever  or  whatever 
it  happened  to  be,  should  be  made  to  pay  hand 
somely  for  his  loss.  Really,  at  this  stage  of 
his  fortunes  nothing  could  have  been  more  op 
portune.  The  Temple  Hotel  had  reached  the 
limit  of  its  capacity,  and  he  had  been  obliged 
to  turn  away  guests.  Moreover  the  priests, 
shrewd  old  sinners,  had  begun  to  clamour  for 
increased  rental.  They  had  detected  signs  of 
prosperity — as  indeed,  who  could  not  detect  it 
— and  for  some  time  past  they  had  been  urging 
that  a  hundred  dollars  Mex.  a  year  was  inade 
quate  compensation.  Well,  this  revolution, 
whatever  it  was  all  about,  would  put  a  stop  to 
all  that.  Rivers  would  claim,  and  would  un 
doubtedly  receive,  an  ample  indemnity,  with 
which  money  he  would  build  himself  a  fine 
modern  hostelry,  such  as  befitted  this  flourish 
ing  new  trade  centre,  and  as  befitted  himself, 
shrewd  and  clever  man  of  affairs.  Altogether, 


CIVILIZATION 


this  revolution  was  a  most  timely  and  fortu 
nate  occurrence.  He  surveyed  the  scene  be 
neath  him,  but  a  good  way  off,  be  it  said. 
Shrieks  and  yells,  firing  and  destruction,  and 
the  whole  Tartar  City  in  flames  and  fast  crum 
bling  into  ashes. 

The  revolution  settled  itself  in  due  time. 
The  rebels  either  got  what  they  wanted,  or 
didn't  get  what  they  wanted,  or  changed  their 
minds  about  wanting  it  after  all,  as  sometimes 
happens  with  Chinese  uprisings.  Whichever 
way  it  was,  law  and  order  were  finally  restored 
and  life  resumed  itself  again  on  normal  lines, 
although  the  Tartar  City,  lying  within  the 
Chinese  City,  was  a  total  wreck.  What  hap 
pened  in  consequence  to  the  despoiled  and  dis 
persed  Manchu  element  is  no  concern  of  ours. 

Rivers  put  in  his  claim  for  an  indemnity  and 
got  it.  It  was  awarded  promptly,  that  is, 
with  the  delay  of  only  a  few  months,  and  he 
at  once  set  out  to  build  himself  a  fine  hotel, 
in  accordance  with  his  highest  ambitions.  The 
construction  was  entrusted  to  a  native  con 
tractor,  and  while  the  work  progressed  apace, 
he  and  his  wife  went  down  river  to  Shanghai, 
and  the  children  were  sent  north  somewhere 

[42] 


ON    THE    HEIGHTS 


to  a  mission  school.  During  this  enforced 
residence  in  Shanghai,  in  which  city  he  had 
been  known  some  years  ago  as  a  pronounced 
beach-comber  and  f  ne'er-do-weel,  he  was 
obliged  to  live  practically  without  funds. 
However,  he  was  able  to  borrow  on  the 
strength  of  his  indemnity,  but  to  do  him  jus 
tice,  he  limited  his  borrowings  to  the  lowest 
terms,  not  wishing  to  encroach  upon  his  cap 
ital.  In  all  this  economy  of  living,  his  wife 
assisted  him  greatly,  for  although  supine  and 
flexible  there  was  that  quality  of  force  about 
her  which  we  have  mentioned  before. 

As  befitted  a  person  who  had  lost  his  all  in 
a  Chinese  uprising  and  had  been  rewarded  with 
a  large  sum  of  money  in  return,  Rivers  was 
particularly  bitter  against  the  Chinese.  His 
old  contempt  and  hatred  flared  up  to  large 
proportions,  and  he  expressed  his  feelings 
openly  and  freely,  especially  at  those  times 
when  alcohol  clouded  his  judgment.  More 
over,  he  was  living  in  Shanghai  now,  where  it 
was  easy  to  express  his  feelings  in  the  classic 
way  approved  by  foreigners,  and  sanctioned 
by  the  customs  and  usages  of  the  International 
Settlement.  He  delighted  to  walk  along  the 
[43] 


CIVILIZATION 


Bund,  among  crowds  of  burdened  coolies 
bending  and  panting  under  great  sacks  of 
rice,  and  to  see  them  shrink  and  swerve  as  he 
approached,  fearing  a  blow  of  his  stick.  When 
he  rode  in  rickshaws,  he  habitually  cheated 
the  coolie  of  his  proper  fare,  secure  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  Chinese  had  no  redress, 
could  appeal  to  no  one,  and  must  accept  a  few 
coppers  or  none  at  all,  at  his  pleasure.  If 
the  coolie  objected,  Rivers  still  had  the  rights 
of  it.  A  crowd  might  collect,  vociferating  in 
their  vile  jargon,  but  it  mattered  nothing.  A 
word  from  Rivers  to  a  passing  European,  to 
a  policeman,  to  any  one  whose  word  carries  in 
the  Settlement,  was  sufficient.  He  had  but  to 
explain  that  one  of  these  impertinent  yellow 
pigs  had  tried  to  extort  three  times  the  legal 
fare,  and  his  case  was  won.  No  coolie  could 
successfully  contradict  the  word  of  a  foreigner, 
no  police  court,  should  matters  go  as  far  as  that, 
would  take  a  Chinaman's  word  against  that  of 
a  white  man.  He  was  quite  secure  in  his  bully 
ing,  in  his  dishonesty,  in  his  brutality,  and  there 
is  no  place  on  earth  where  the  white  man  is 
more  secure  in  his  whitemanishness  than  in  th& 
Settlement,  administered  by  the  ruling  races 
[44] 


ON   THE    HEIGHTS 


of  the  world.  Rivers  thoroughly  en j  oyed  these 
street  fracases,  in  which  he  was  the  natural  and 
logical  victor.  He  enjoyed  telling  about  them 
afterward,  for  they  served  to  illustrate  his  con 
ception  of  the  Chinese  character  and  of  the 
Chinese  race  in  general.  It  was  but  natural 
for  him  to  feel  this  way,  seeing  what  losses  he 
had  suffered  through  the  revolution.  As  he  told 
of  his  losses,  it  was  not  apparent  to  an  out 
sider  that  the  hotel  had  not  been  utterly  and 
entirely  his  property,  instead  of  an  old  Bud 
dhist  temple  rented  from  the  Driests  for  one 
hundred  dollars  Mex.  a  year. 

Besides  Rivers,  others  in  the  town  in  the 
interior  had  suffered  hardships.  Among  them 
was  his  number-one  boy,  Kwong,  who  had 
served  him  faithfully  for  several  years.  Kwong 
had  been  rather  hard  hit  by  the  uprising.  His 
wretched  little  hovel  had  been  burned  to  the 
ground,  his  wife  had  fallen  victim  to  a  bullet, 
while  his  two  younger  children  disappeared 
during  the  excitement  and  were  never  heard  of 
again.  Killed,  presumably.  After  the  vic 
torious  rebels  had  had  their  way,  all  that  re 
mained  to  Kwong  was  his  son  Liu,  aged  eigh 
teen,  and  these  two  decided  to  come  down  to 

[45] 


CIVILIZATION 


Shanghai  and  earn  their  living  amidst  more 
civilized  surroundings.  One  of  the  strongest 
arguments  in  favour  of  the  International  Set 
tlement  is  that  it  affords  safety  and  protection 
to  the  Chinese.  They  flock  to  it  in  great  num-» 
bers,  preferring  the  just  and  beneficent  ad 
ministration  of  the  white  man  to  the  uncer 
tainties  of  native  rule.  So  Kwong  and  his 
son  made  their  way  down  the  Yangtzse,  float 
ing  down  river  on  a  stately  junk  with  ragged 
matting  sails.  It  was  the  tide,  and  a  bamboo 
pole  for  pushing,  rather  than  any  assistance  de 
rived  from  the  ragged  sails,  which  eventually 
landed  them  in  the  safe  harbour  of  Whangpoo 
Creek,  and  stranded  them  on  the  mud  flats  be 
low  Garden  Bridge. 

Being  illiterate  people,  father  and  son,  un 
skilled  labour  was  all  that  presented  itself,  so 
they  became  rickshaw  coolies,  as  so  many 
country  people  do.  During  a  year,  some  two 
hundred  thousand  men,  young  and  old  and 
mostly  from  up-country,  take  up  the  work  of 
rickshaw  runners.  It  is  not  profitable  em 
ployment,  and  the  work  is  hard,  and  many  of 
them  drop  out — the  come-and-go  of  rickshaw 
runners  is  enormous,  a  great,  unstable,  floating 

[46] 


ON   THE    HEIGHTS 


population.  Kwong  and  Liu  hired  a  rickshaw 
between  them,  for  a  dollar  and  ten  cents  a  day* 
and  their  united  exertions  barely  covered  the 
day's  hire.  Sometimes  they  had  a  few  cop 
pers  over  and  above  the  daily  expenses,  some 
times  they  fell  below  that  sum  and  had  to  make 
up  the  deficit  on  the  morrow.  On  the  occasions 
when  they  were  in  debt  to  the  proprietor,  they 
were  forced  to  forego  the  small  outlay  required 
for  food,  and  neither  could  afford  a  meagre 
bowl  of  millet.  Pulling  a  rickshaw  on  an 
empty  stomach  is  not  conducive  to  health. 
Kwong,  being  an  older  man,  found  the  strain 
very  difficult,  and  Liu,  being  but  a  fledgling 
and  weak  and  undeveloped  at  that,  also  found 
it  difficult.  They  were  always  tired,  nearly 
always  hungry,  and  part  of  the  time  ill.  And 
what  neither  could  understand  was  the  pas 
sengers'  objection  to  paying  the  legal  fare. 
Now  and  then,  of  course,  they  had  a  windfall 
in  the  shape  of  a  tourist  or  a  drunken  sailor 
from  a  cruiser,  but  these  exceptions  were  few 
and  far  between.  Necessarily  so,  considering 
the  number  of  rickshaws,  and  that  the  tram 
cars  were  strong  competitors  as  well. 

They  were  also  surprised  at  the  attitude  of 
[47] 


CIVILIZATION 


the  Europeans.  The  first  time  that  Liu  was 
struck  over  the  head  by  a  beautiful  Malacca 
cane,  he  was  aghast  with  astonishment — and 
pain.  Fortunately  he  knew  enough  not  to  hit 
back.  Not  understanding  English,  he  did  not 
know  that  he  was  being  directed  to  turn  up  the 
Peking  Road,  and  accordingly  had  run  swiftly 
past  the  Peking  Road  until  brought  to  his 
senses,  so  to  speak,  by  a  silver  knob  above  the 
ear,  which  made  him  dizzy  with  pain.  As  time 
passed,  however,  he  grew  accustomed  to  this5 
attitude  of  the  ruling  race,  and  accepted  the 
blows  without  remonstrance,  knowing  that 
remonstrance  was  vain.  His  fellow  coolies 
soon  taught  him  that.  He  and  his  kind  were 
but  dogs  in  the  sight  of  the  foreigners,  and 
must  accept  a  dog's  treatment  in  consequence. 
Once  a  lady  leaned  far  forward  in  the  rick 
shaw  and  gave  him  a  vicious  kick.  Up  till  then, 
he  had  not  realised  that  the  women  of  the  white 
race  also  had  this  same  feeling  towards  him. 
But  what  can  one  expect?  If  a  man  lowers 
himself  to  the  plane  of  an  animal  and  gets  be 
tween  shafts,  he  must  expect  an  animal's  treat 
ment.  In  certain  communities,  however,  there 
are  societies  to  protect  animals. 
[48] 


ON   THE    HEIGHTS 


Matters  went  along  like  this  for  some 
months,  and  Kwong  and  Liu  barely  kept  them 
selves  going.  However,  they  managed  to  keep 
out  of  debt  for  the  rickshaw  hire,  which  was 
in  itself  an  achievement.  Rivers  also  continued 
to  live  in  Shanghai  at  this  time,  making  up- 
river  trips  now  and  then  to  inspect  the  progress 
of  his  new  hotel,  which  was  favourable.  As  he 
landed  at  the  Bund  one  day,  returning  from 
one  of  these  excursions,  he  chanced  to  step  into 
the  rickshaw  pulled  by  his  old  servitor,  Kwong. 
Kwong  made  him  a  respectful  salute,  but 
Rivers,  preoccupied,  failed  to  recognise  his 
former  servant  in  the  old  and  filthy  coolie  who 
stood  between  the  shafts  of  an  old  and  shabby 
rickshaw.  He  always  made  it  a  point  to  select 
old  rickshaws,  pulled  by  broken  down  men. 
They  looked  habitually  underpaid,  and  were 
probably  used  to  it,  and  were  therefore  less 
likely  to  raise  objections  at  the  end  of  the  trip 
than  one  of  the  swift  young  runners  who  stood 
about  the  European  hotels.  Remember,  in  ex 
tenuation,  that  Rivers  was  living  on  credit  at 
this  time,  on  borrowed  money,  and  he  did  not 
like  to  be  more  extravagant  than  he  had  to. 

The  day  was  a  piping  hot  one,  and  the  dis- 
[49] 


CIVILIZATION 


tance  Rivers  travelled  was  something  under 
three  miles,  out  on  the  edge  of  French  Town. 
When  he  alighted,  he  found  but  three  cop 
per  cents  in  his  pocket,  all  that  was  left  him 
after  a  considerable  carouse  on  the  river  boat 
coming  down.  He  tendered  this  sum  to  the 
panting  and  sweating  Kwong,  who  stood  ex 
hausted  but  respectful,  hoping  in  a  friendly 
way  that  his  old  master  would  recognise  him. 
To  do  Rivers  justice,  he  did  not  recognise  his 
former  servant,  nor  did  he  have  more  than 
three  copper  cents  in  his  possession,  although 
that  fact  was  known  to  him  when  he  stepped 
into  the  rickshaw  and  directed  the  coolie  to 
French  Town,  extreme  limits.  Kwong  in 
dignantly  rejected  the  copper  cents,  and  Rivers 
flung  them  into  the  dust  and  turned  away. 
Kwong  ran  after  him,  expostulating,  catching 
him  by  the  coat  sleeve.  Rivers  turned  savagely. 
The  wide  road  was  deserted,  and  in  a  flash  he 
brought  his  heavy  blackwood  stick  across 
K wong's  face  with  a  terrific  blow.  The  coolie 
fell  sprawling  in  the  dust  at  his  old  master's 
feet,  and  Rivers,  furious,  kicked  him  savagely 
in  the  stomach,  again  and  again,  until  the  man 
lay  still  and  ceased  writhing.  Blood  gushed 

[50] 


ON    THE    HEIGHTS 


from  his  mouth,  making  a  puddle  in  the  dust,  a 
puddle  which  turned  black  and  thick  about  the 
edges. 

In  an  instant  Rivers  was  sobered.  He 
glanced  swiftly  up  and  down  the  road,  and  to 
his  dismay,  saw  a  crowd  of  blue  coated  figures 
running  in  his  direction.  He  had  barely  time 
to  stoop  down  and  pick  up  the  tell-tale  cop 
pers  before  he  was  surrounded  by  a  noisy  and 
excited  group  of  Chinese,  gesticulating  furi 
ously  and  rending  the  hot,  blue  air  with  their 
outlandish  cries.  A  policeman  came  in  sight, 
and  a  passing  motor  filled  with  foreigners 
stopped  to  see  the  trouble.  He  had  overdone 
things,  surely.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
the  police  station. 

Now  such  accidents  are  not  infrequent  in 
Shanghai,  the  white  man's  city  built  in  China, 
administered  by  the  white  men  to  their  own 
advantage,  and  to  the  advantage  of  the  Chinese 
who  seek  protection  under  the  white  man's 
just  and  beneficent  rule.  However,  human 
life  is  very  cheap  in  China,  cheaper  than  most 
places  in  the  Orient,  although  that  is  not  say 
ing  much.  It  would,  therefore,  have  been  very 
easy  for  Rivers  to  have  extricated  himself  from 

[51] 


CIVILIZATION 


this  scrape  had  he  possessed  any  money.  Two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  Mex.  is  the  usual 
price  for  a  coolie's  life  when  an  affair  of  this 
kind  happens.  There  is  a  well  established 
precedent  to  this  effect.  Unfortunately  for 
Rivers,  he  did  not  possess  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  for  as  has  been  said,  he  was  at 
this  time  living  on  borrowed  money.  Nothing 
for  it  then  but  a  trial,  and  certain  unpleasant 
publicity.  Happily,  there  were  no  witnesses 
to  the  occurrence,  and  Rivers'  plea  of  self-de 
fence  would  naturally  be  accepted.  It  was  an 
unpleasant  business,  however,  but  there  was  no 
other  way  out  of  it,  seeing  that  he  was  bank 
rupt. 

The  trial  took  place  with  due  dignity.  Evi 
dence,  produced  after  an  autopsy,  proved  that 
at  the  time  of  the  accident  Kwong  was  in  a  very 
poor  state  of  health.  Every  one  knows  that  the 
work  of  a  rickshaw  coolie  is  hard,  the  physical 
strain  exceedingly  severe.  Four  years,  at  the 
outside,  is  the  average  life  of  a  rickshaw  run 
ner,  after  which  he  must  change  his  occupation 
to  something  more  suited  to  a  physical  wreck. 
Much  testimony  was  produced  to  show  that 
Kwong  had  long  ago  reached  that  point.  He 

[52] 


ON   THE   HEIGHTS 


was  courting  death,  defying  death,  every  day. 
It  was  his  own  fault.  He  had  great  varicose 
veins  in  his  legs,  which  were  large  and  swollen. 
His  heart,  constantly  overtaxed  by  running 
with  heavy  weights,  was  enlarged  and  ready  to 
burst  any  moment.  His  spleen  also  was  greatly 
dilated  and  ready  to  burst — in  fact,  it  was  not 
at  all  clear  whether  after  such  a  long  run — 
three  miles  in  such  heat — he  would  not  have 
dropped  dead  anyway.  Such  cases  were  of 
daily  occurrence,  too  numerous  to  mention. 
The  slight  blow  he  had  received — a  mere  push 
as  defendant  had  stated  under  oath — was  prob 
ably  nothing  more  than  a  mere  unfortunate 
coincidence. 

Such  being  the  evidence,  and  the  courts  be 
ing  administered  by  Europeans,  and  there  be 
ing  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  quality  of  jus 
tice  administered  by  Europeans  in  their  own 
behalf,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Rivers  was  ac 
quitted.  The  verdict  returned  was,  Accidental 
death  due  to  rupture  of  the  spleen,  caused  by 
over-exertion.  Rivers  was  a  good  deal  shaken, 
however,  when  he  stepped  out  of  the  court 
room,  into  the  hot,  bright  sunshine,  and  re 
ceived  the  congratulations  of  his  friends.  He 

[53] 


CIVILIZATION 


had  heard  so  many  disgusting  medical  details 
of  the  havoc  caused  by  rickshaw  pulling,  that 
he  resolved  to  be  very  careful  in  future  about 
hitting  these  impudent,  good-for-nothing 
swine. 

Amongst  the  crowd  in  the  courtroom, 
but  practically  unnoticed,  sat  Liu,  son  of  the 
late  Kwong.  The  proceedings  being  in  English, 
he  was  unable  to  follow  them,  but  he  knew 
enough  to  realise  that  the  slayer  of  his  father 
was  being  tried.  Presumably  his  life  was  at 
stake,  as  was  befitting  under  the  circumstances.. 
Therefore  his  surprise  was  great  when  the  out 
come  of  the  case  was  explained  to  him  by  a 
Chinese  friend  who  understood  English,  and 
his  astonishment,  if  such  it  may  be  called,  was 
still  more  intense  upon  seeing  Rivers  walk 
out  of  the  courtroom  receiving  congratulatory 
handshakes  as  he  passed.  To  the  ignorant  mind 
of  the  young  Chinese,  Rivers  was  being  felici 
tated  for  having  committed  murder.  He  was 
unable  to  draw  any  fine  distinctions,  or  to  un 
derstand  that  these  congratulations  were  not( 
intended  for  Rivers  personally,  but  because 
his  acquittal  strengthened  established  prece 
dents.  Precedents  that  rendered  unassailable 

[54] 


ON  THE   HEIGHTS 


the  status  of  the  ruling  race.  Liu  was  therefore 
filled  with  an  overmastering  and  bitter  hatred 
of  Rivers,  and  had  he  realised  what  the  acquit 
tal  stood  for,  would  probably  have  been  filled 
with  an  equally  intense  hatred  for  the  dominant 
race  in  general.  Not  understanding  that,  how 
ever,  he  concentrated  his  feelings  upon  Rivers, 
and  resolved  to  bring  him  to  account  in  ac 
cord  with  simpler,  less  civilized  standards. 

Within  two  months,  the  Temple  Hotel  was 
finished  and  ready  for  use.  Much  foreign  fur 
niture  had  been  sent  up  from  Shanghai,  and 
Rivers  and  his  wife  also  removed  themselves  to 
the  up-river  town  and  set  about  their  business. 
Rivers  was  glad  to  leave  Shanghai ;  he  had  had 
enough  of  it,  since  his  unlucky  episode,  and 
was  glad  to  bury  himself  in  the  comparative 
obscurity  of  the  interior.  Life  resumed  it 
self  smoothly  once  again,  and  he  prospered  ex 
ceedingly. 

His  attitude  towards  the  natives,  however, 
was  more  domineering  than  ever,  now  that  he 
had  recovered  from  the  unpleasant  two  weeks 
that  preceded  his  trial.  These  two  weeks  had 
been  more  uncomfortable  than  he  liked  to 
think  about,  but  safely  away  from  the  scene  of 
155])  ' 


CIVILIZATION 


the  disturbance,  he  became  more  abusive,  more 
brutal  than  ever  in  his  attitude  towards  the 
Chinese.  His  servants  horribly  feared  him,  yet 
did  his  bidding  with  alacrity.  The  reputation 
of  a  man  who  could  kill  when  he  chose,  with 
impunity,  stood  him  in  good  stead.  Liu,  the 
son  of  Kwong,  followed  him  up-river  and  ob 
tained  a  place  in  his  household  as  pidgeon-cook, 
assistant  to  number-one  cook.  Rivers  failed  to 
recognize  his  new  servant,  and  at  such  times  as 
he  encountered  him,  was  delighted  with  the  ser 
vile  attitude  of  the  youth,  and  called  him  "Son 
of  a  Turtle"  which  is  the  worst  insult  in  the 
Chinese  language. 

Liu  bided  his  time,  for  time  is  of  no  moment 
in  the  Orient.  His  hatred  grew  from  day  to 
day,  but  he  continued  to  wrait.  He  wished  to 
see  Rivers  thoroughly  successful,  at  the  height 
of  his  career,  before  calling  him  to  account., 
Since  he  would  have  to  pay  for  his  revenge  with 
his  life — not  being  a  European — he  determined 
that  a  white  man  at  the  top  of  his  pride  would 
be  a  more  fitting  victim  than  one  who  had  not 
yet  climbed  the  ladder.  Such  was  his  simple 
reasoning.  Under  his  long  blue  coat  there  hung 

[56] 


ON   THE    HEIGHTS 


a  long,  thin  knife,  whetted  to  razor  sharpness 
on  both  edges. 

Summer  came  again,  and  the  blazing  heat 
of  mid- China  lay  over  the  land.  Mrs.  Rivers 
went  north  to  join  her  children,  and  the  num 
ber  of  guests  in  the  hotel  diminished  to  two  or 
three.  Business  and  tourists  came  to  a  stand 
still  during  these  scorching  weeks,  and  Rivers 
finally  went  down  to  Shanghai  for  a  few  days' 
jollification.  He  left  his  affairs  in  the  hands 
of  the  shroff,  the  Chinese  accountant,  who 
could  be  trusted  to  manage  them  for  a  short 
time. 

He  returned  unexpectedly  one  night  about 
eleven  o'clock,  quite  drunk.  The  few  guests 
had  retired  and  the  hotel  was  closed.  At  the 
gate,  the  watchman  lay  asleep  beside  his 
lantern,  and  when  Rivers  let  himself  in  with 
his  key,  he  found  Liu  in  the  lounge,  also  asleep. 
He  cursed  Liu,  but  submitted  to  the  steady, 
supporting  arm  which  the  boy  place  around  his 
waist,  and  was  led  to  bed  without  difficulty. 
Liu  assisted  his  master  to  undress,  folding 
up  the  crumpled,  white  linen  clothes  with  silver 
buttons,  and  laying  them  neatly  across  a  chair. 
He  was  an  excellent  servant.  Then  he  retired 

[57] 


CIVILIZATION 


from  the  room,  listening  outside  the  door  till 
he  heard  sounds  of  heavy,  stertorous  breathing. 
At  that  moment,  the  contempt  of  the  Chinese 
for  the  dominant  race  was  even  greater  than 
Rivers'  contempt  for  the  inferior  one. 

When  the  proprietor's  breathing  had  as 
sumed  reassuring  proportions,  Liu  opened  the 
door  cautiously,  and  stepped  lightly  into  the 
room.  He.  then  locked  it  with  equal  caution, 
slipped  quietly  across  to  the  verandah,  and 
passed  out  through  the  long,  wide-open  win 
dows.  The  verandah  was  a  dozen  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  the  dark  passage  below,  leading 
to  the  gate,  was  deserted.  At  the  other  end 
sat  the  watchman  with  his  lantern,  presumably 
asleep.  Liu  had  not  heard  his  drum  tap  for 
an  hour.  A  shaft  of  moonlight  penetrated  the 
room,  and  a  light  wind  blowing  in  from  out 
side  gently  stirred  the  mosquito  curtains  over 
the  bed.  Liu  tiptoed  to  the  bed,  and  with 
infinite  care  drew  the  netting  aside  and  stood 
surveying  his  victim.  Rivers  lay  quite  still 
with  arms  outstretched,  fat  and  bloated, 
breathing  with  hoarse,  blowing  sounds,  quite 
repulsive.  The  moonlight  was  sufficient  to 
enable  Liu  to  see  the  dark  outline  upon  the 

[58] 


ON   THE   HEIGHTS 


bed,  and  to  gauge  where  he  would  strike.  He 
hovered  over  his  victim,  exultant,  prolonging 
from  minute  to  minute  this  strange,  new  feel 
ing  of  power  and  dominance.  That  was  what 
it  meant  to  be  a  white  man — to  feel  this  feeling 
always — always — all  one's  life,  not  merely  for 
a  few  brief,  exhilarating  moments !  And  with 
that  feeling  of  power  and  dominance  was  the 
ability  to  inflict  pain,  horrible,  frightful  pain. 
That  also  was  part  of  the  white  man's  heritage, 
this  ability  to  inflict  pain  and  suffering  at  will. 
And  after  that,  death.  Liu  also  had  the  power 
to  inflict  death.  Leaning  over  the  bed,  with 
the  long,  keen  knife  in  his  steady  clutch,  he  was 
for  those  glorious  moments  the  equal  of  the 
white  man!  He  prolonged  his  sensations 
breathlessly — this  sense  of  superb  power,  this 
superb  ability  to  inflict  humiliation,  pain  and 
death. 

A  mosquito  lit  on  Rivers'  blotched  cheek, 
and  he  raised  a  heavy  arm  to  brush  it  away. 
Then  he  relaxed  again  with  a  snore.  Liu 
paused,  waiting.  The  glorious  exaltation  was 
mounting  higher.  It  occurred  to  him  to  sharpen 
these  sensations,  to  heighten  them.  After  all, 
he  was  about  to  kill  a  drunken  man  in  a 

[59] 


CIVILIZATION 


drunken  sleep.  He  wanted  something  better. 
He  wanted  to  feel  his  power  over  a  conscious 
man,  a  man  conscious  and  aware  of  what  was 
to  befall  him.  Even  as  his  father  had  been 
conscious  and  aware  of  what  was  befalling  him, 
even  as  thousands  of  his  countrymen  were 
awake  and  aware,  knowing  what  was  being 
done  to  them — by  the  dominant  race.  He 
wished  Rivers  awake  and  aware.  It  involved 
greater  risk,  but  it  was  worth  it.  Therefore, 
with  the  point  of  his  sharp,  keen  knife,  he 
gently  prodded  the  throat  of  the  sleeper,  lying 
supine  before  him  under  the  moon  rays.  Gently, 
very  gently,  he  prodded  the  exposed  throat, 
placed  the  point  of  his  knife  very  gently  upon 
his  heaving,  corded  larynx,  which  pulsed  in 
ward  and  outward  under  the  heaving,  stertor 
ous  breaths.  Gently  he  stimulated  the  corded, 
puffing  throat,  gently,  with  the  point  of  his 
sharp  knife. 

The  result  was  as  he  wished.  First  Rivers 
stirred,  moved  a  restless  arm,  flopped  an  im 
potent,  heavy  arm  that  fell  back  upon  the  pil 
low,  an  arm  that  failed  to  reach  its  objective, 
to  quell  the  tickling,  cold  point  prodded  into 
his  throat.  Then  as  he  slowly  grew  conscious, 

[60] 


ON   THE    HEIGHTS 


the  movements  of  the  arm  became  more  co 
ordinated.  Into  his  drunken  mind  came  the 
fixed  sensation  of  a  disturbance  at  his  throat. 
He  became  conscious,  opened  a  heavy  eye,  and 
fixed  it  upon  Liu,  without  at  the  same  time 
feeling  the  pressing  point  at  his  throat.  Liu 
saw  his  returning  consciousness,  and  leaning 
over  him,  pressed  upon  his  throat,  ever  so 
lightly,  the  point  of  his  long  knife.  Thus  for 
a  moment  or  two  they  regarded  each  other, 
Liu  having  the  advantage.  But  so  it  had  al 
ways  been.  Having  the  advantage  was  one  of 
the  attributes  of  the  dominant  race.  Thus  for 
those  few  brief  seconds,  Liu  experienced  the 
whole  glory  of  it.  And  as  little  by  little 
Rivers  emerged  from  the  drunken  to  the  con 
scious,  to  the  abjectly,  cravenly  conscious,  so 
Liu  mounted  to  the  heights. 

Then  he  saw  that  Rivers  was  about  to  cry 
out.  To  let  forth  a  roaring  bellow,  a  howling 
bellow.  Enough.  He  had  tasted  the  whole  of 
it.  He  had  felt,  for  prolonged  and  glorious 
moments,  the  feelings  of  the  superior  race. 
Therefore  he  drove  home,  silently,  his  sharp, 
keen  knife,  and  stifled  the  mad  bellow  that  was 
about  to  be  let  forth.  After  which,  he  crept 

[61] 


CIVILIZATION 


very  cautiously  to  the  balcony,  and  peered 
anxiously  up  and  down  the  dark  alleyway  be 
neath.  He  lowered  himself  with  infinite  cau 
tion  over  the  railing.  He  had  become  once 
more  the  cringing  Oriental. 


[62] 


HOMESICK 


Ill 


HOMESICK 

A  CHINESE  gentleman,  with  his  arms  tucked 
up  inside  the  brocaded  sleeves  of  his  satin  coat, 
stood  one  day  with  one  foot  in  China  and  the 
other  upon  European  soil.  From  time  to  time 
he  bore  with  alternate  weight  upon  the  right 
foot,  on  Chinese  soil,  and  then  upon  the  left) 
foot,  upon  European  soil,  and  his  mental  at 
titude  shifted  from  right  to  left  accordingly. 
The  foot  upon  Chinese  soil  reflected  upward  to 
his  brain  the  restriction  of  Chinese  laws,  the 
breaking  of  which  were  accompanied  by  heavy 
penalties.  The  foot  upon  European  soil  re 
assured  him  as  to  his  ability  to  indulge  him 
self,  with  no  penalties  whatsoever.  Therefore, 
after  balancing  himself  for  a  few  moments  first 
upon  this  foot,  then  upon  that,  he  gave  way  to 
his  inclinations  and  resolved  to  indulge  them. 
In  certain  matters,  Europeans  were  more 
liberal  than  Chinese. 

[65] 


CIVILIZATION 


From  this  you  will  see  that  he  had  been 
standing  with  one  foot  in  China,  where  opium 
traffic  was  prohibited,  where  heavy  fines  were 
attached  to  opium  smoking  and  to  opium  buy 
ing,  where  heavy  jail  sentences  were  imposed 
upon  those  who  smoked  or  bought  opium, 
while  the  other  foot,  planted  upon  the  ground 
of  the  Foreign  Concession,  assured  him  of  his; 
absolute  freedom  to  buy  opium  in  any  quantity 
he  chose,  and  to  smoke  himself  to  a  standstill 
in  an  opium  den  licensed  under  European 
auspices.  In  his  saner  moments,  when  not  un 
der  the  influence  of  the  drug,  he  resented  the 
European  occupation  of  certain  parts  of 
Chinese  territory,  but  when  his  craving  for 
opium  occurred — which  it  did  with  great  fre 
quency — he  was  delighted  to  realise  that  there 
were  certain  parts  of  China  not  under  the  au 
thority  of  the  drastic  laws  of  China,  which  laws 
prohibited  with  such  drastic  and  heavy  penal 
ties  the  indulgences  he  craved.  Therefore  he 
swayed  himself  backwards  and  forwards  for  a 
space,  first  upon  this  foot,  then  upon  that,  and 
finally  withdrew  both  feet  into  the  Foreign 
Concession,  and  directed  his  steps  to  a  shop 
where  opium  was  sold  under  European  in- 

[66] 


HOMESICK 

fluence.  The  shop  was  capacious  but  dark. 
He  stated  his  requirements  and  they  were 
measured  out  to  him — a  large  keg  was  with 
drawn  from  its  place  on  a  shelf,  and  a  gentle 
Chinese,  clad,  like  himself,  in  satin  brocade, 
dug  into  the  contents  of  the  keg  with  a  ladle 
and  withdrew  from  it  a  black,  molasses-like 
substance,  which  ran  slowly  and  gummily 
from  the  ladle  into  the  small  silver  box  which 
the  customer  had  produced.  The  box  finally 
filled,  with  some  of  the  gummy,  black  contents 
running  over  the  edges,  our  gentleman  with 
drew  himself,  having  accomplished  his  purpose. 
Tucked  into  the  security  of  his  belt,  it  was  im 
possible  to  detect  the  contraband  as  he  again 
stepped  over  the  boundary  line  which  separated 
Chinese  from  European  soil. 

Half  an  hour  after  our  Chinese  gentleman 
had  stepped  across  the  boundary  line  into  the 
native  city,  with  a  large  supply  of  opium 
concealed  in  his  belt,  part  of  which  he  would 
retail  to  certain  friends  who  had  not  time 
enough  to  run  across  into  the  European  con 
cession  to  buy  it  for  themselves,  a  young  Eng 
lishman  stood,  by  curious  coincidence,  upon  the 
same  spot  recently  occupied  by  the  Chinese. 

[67] 


CIVILIZATION 


He  also  stood  with  one  foot  upon  Chinese  soil, 
with  the  other  upon  the  soil  of  the  Foreign 
Concession,  and  regretted,  with  considerable 
vehemence,  that  at  this  dividing  line  his  efforts 
must  cease.  He  had  been  pursuing,  for  per 
haps  a  mile,  the  proprietor  of  a  certain  gam 
bling  den,  whom  he  wished  to  apprehend.  But 
at  the  boundary  line,  which  the  Chinese  had 
reached  before  him,  his  prey  had  escaped.  He 
was  off  somewhere,  safe  in  the  devious  lanes 
and  burrows  of  the  native  city.  Therefore  he 
stood  baffled,  and  finally  made  his  way  back 
into  the  Settlement,  along  the  quais,  and 
finally  reached  his  rooms.  He  pondered  some 
what  over  the  situation.  That  which  was  per 
mitted  on  Chinese  territory,  was  prohibited 
in  the  foreign  holdings — and  the  reverse.  It 
just  depended  whether  you  were  on  this  side 
the  line  or  that,  as  to  whether  or  not  you  were 
a  lawbreaker.  Morality  appeared  arbitrary, 
determined  by  geographical  lines — a  matter 
of  dollars  and  cents.  Lawson  walked  slowly 
along  the  Bund,  turning  the  matter  over  in  his 
rather  limited  mind.  Take  the  opium  business, 
he  considered.  The  Chinese  considered  it  harm 
ful,  and  wished  to  abolish  it.  Very  good.  Yet 

[68] 


HOMESICK 


the  Foreign  Concessions  made  money  out  of 
it  and  insisted  upon  selling  it. 

Take  another  example,  he  reflected — gam 
bling,  his  job.  Or  rather,  his  job  was  the  sup 
pression  of  gambling — in  the  foreign  holdings. 
The  Chinese  considered  it  harmless,  a  matter 
of  individual  inclination.  Very  good.  But  the 
foreigners  considered  it  a  vice,  and  he,  Lawson, 
was  appointed  to  run  to  earth  Chinese  fan-tan 
houses,  in  the  Concession,  and  suppress  them. 
Yet  his  own  people,  the  foreigners,  gambled 
freely  and  uproariously  in  their  own  establish 
ments — at  the  races,  and  at  certain  houses 
which  they  maintained  for  their  pleasure.  True, 
these  houses  were  not  in  the  Concession — for 
some  reason  the  foreigners  had  set  their  face 
against  gambling  in  the  Concession — yet  they 
maintained  their  establishments,  their  showy 
and  luxurious  establishments,  outside  the  Con 
cession  and  upon  Chinese  soil.  They  must  pay 
a  handsome  squeeze  for  the  privilege.  Yet  it 
was  difficult  to  reconcile.  What  was  right  and 
wrong,  anyway?  What  was  moral  or  im 
moral,  anyway?  Lawson,  of  very  limited  in 
telligence,  walked  along,  sorely  puzzled.  Sauce 
for  the  goose,  sauce  for  the  gander — well,  two 

[69] 


CIVILIZATION 


very  different  kinds  of  sauces,  composed  of 
very  different  ingredients,  as  far  as  he  could 
see.  Lawson,  being  a  young  man  of  limited 
intelligence,  was  greatly  puzzled.  He  had  been 
greatly  bothered  over  this  for  a  long  time.  It 
began  to  look  to  him — very  vaguely — as  if 
morality  was  not  an  abstract  but  a  concrete 
affair. 

Just  then  he  passed  an  opium  shop,  and  con 
sidered  again.  That  surely  was  a  nasty  game, 
yet  his  Government  encouraged  it — and  made 
money  from  it.  But  the  Chinese,  on  their  side 
of  the  boundary  line,  were  doing  their  best  to 
suppress  it.  It  was  very  difficult  for  them  to 
make  headway,  however,  since  opium  shops 
flourished  and  were  encouraged  by  the  foreign 
concessions,  over  which  the  Chinese  had  no 
control.  Topsy  turvy,  anyway.  No  wonder 
a  person  like  Lawson  was  unable  to  under 
stand  it.  It  all  resolved  itself  into  a  question 
of  money,  after  all.  For  after  all,  money  was 
the  main  object  of  life,  whether  on  the  part  of 
an  individual  or  of  a  government.  And  since 
all  governments  were  composed  of  individuals, 
and  reflected  the  ideas  of  individuals,  there  you 
were ! 

fro] 


HOMESICK 

By  this  time,  young  Lawson  had  become 
quite  bored  with  life  in  the  Far  East.  The 
romance  was  gone  and  it  offered  so  little 
variety.  One  day  was  so  like  another,  and 
every  day,  winter  and  summer,  it  was  the  same 
thing  or  the  same  sorts  of  things,  and  there  was 
an  intense  sameness  about  it  all.  By  day  he 
did  his  work — that  goes  without  saying — one 
has  to  work  in  the  Far  East,  that  is  what  one 
comes  out  to  do.  Otherwise,  why  come?  Un 
less  one  is  a  tourist  or  a  missionary,  or  a  buyer 
of  Chinese  antiques,  or  has  had  an  over 
whelming  desire  to  write  a  book  upon  interna 
tional  politics,  a  desire  springing  from  \he 
depths  of  gross  ignorance.  But  after  all,  why 
not  such  a  book?  It  reaches,  if  it  reaches  at  all, 
a  public  still  less  informed,  and  misinformation 
is  as  valuable  as  no  information  at  all,  when  we 
desire  to  interfere  with  the  destiny  of  the 
Chinese.  In  his  leisure  moments,  Lawson  had 
tried  his  hand  at  such  a  book — until  he  sud 
denly  realised  that  he  had  been  in  the  Orient 
too  long  to  make  it  a  success.  He  knew  just  a 
trifle  too  much  about  aif airs,  and  found  himself 
setting  forth  facts  which  would  lead  to  his  un 
doing,  as  a  minor  official  in  the  International 

[71] 


CIVILIZATION 


Settlement — if  he  gave  them  publicity.  He 
could  not  afford  to  lose  his  position.  And  he 
was  by  no  means  sure  that  the  deep,  unerring 
sense  of  justice,  the  innate  instinct  of  the 
masses,  would  rally  to  his  support.  He  had 
his  own  opinion  of  the  ruling  classes,  but  he 
trusted  the  masses  still  less. 

It  was  a  biting  cold  night,  with  a  high  wind 
from  the  north  howling  down  the  long  streets 
and  whipping  the  waters  of  the  harbour  into 
a  fury.  Junks  strained  at  their  anchors,  tossed 
and  heaved,  and  now  and  then  one  broke  loose 
from  its  moorings  and  wandered  about  adrift, 
spreading  infinite  terror  amongst  the  owners 
of  other  junks,  who  feared  for  their  safety.  A 
cruiser  or  two  lay  in  the  roads,  and  the  French 
mail,  and  two  or  three  Japanese  cargo-boats, 
and  half  a  dozen  tramp  ships  from  the  China 
Coast,  but  none  of  these  were  unduly  buffeted 
by  the  gale,  which  only  created  havoc  among  the 
junks  and  sampans.  Lawson's  lodgings  over 
looked  the  harbour,  and  he  laid  down  his  pen 
and  moved  from  the  table  to  the  dark  window, 
trying  in  vain  to  see  what  was  going  on  with-1 
out.  Below,  the  long  line  of  the  quais  was  out 
lined  by  long  rows  of  electric  lights,  swaying 

[72] 


HOMESICK 


and  tossing  from  their  poles,  and  illuminating 
the  shining,  wet  asphalt  of  the  Bund.  He  was 
very,  very  tired  of  it  all.  So  many  years  he 
had  been  out,  and  the  same  monotonous  round 
must  be  gone  through  with,  over  and  over 
again,  day  after  day — until  he  made  money 
enough  to  return  home.  And  as  a  salaried 
clerk,  a  court  runner,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
enforce  the  laws  against  gambling  in  the  Set 
tlement,  that  day  seemed  very  far  distant  in 
deed.  Whenever  he  heard  of  a  fan-tan  place — 
and  he  heard  of  them  every  day — he  must  in 
vestigate,  see  that  it  was  closed  and  the  keepers, 
if  he  was  lucky  enough  to  catch  them,  duly 
punished.  And  the  players  as  well.  Now  to 
eradicate  gambling  from  amongst  the  Chinese 
is  a  difficult  task,  futile  and  ridiculous,  a 
good  waste  of  time  and  money.  He  wondered 
why  his  Government  should  attempt  it.  Fool 
ish  thing  for  his  Government  to  do — yet  what 
would  become  of  Lawson  if  the  undertaking 
were  abolished?  Taste  tea,  probably — ap 
prentice  himself  to  some  tea  merchant,  and 
learn  all  the  nasty  role  of  tea  spitting.  From 
which  you  will  see  that  Lawson  was  squeamish 
about  some  things,  and  did  not  envy  those  of 

[73] 


CIVILIZATION 


his  friends  who  had  become  tea  tasters,  and 
who  moved  all  day  up  and  down  a  long  table, 
filled  with  rows  of  stupid  little  cups,  with  an 
attendant  China  boy  forever  shoving  a  cuspi 
dor  from  one  advanced  position  to  another. 
And  if  not  a  tea  taster,  then  some  commercial 
house  would  absorb  his  energies,  which  would 
be  worse  still — close  at  his  elbow  a  spectacled 
Chinese  clicking  all  day  upon  a  dirty  little 
abacus, — checking  him  UD,  keeping  tabs  on 
him. 

No,  the  work  he  had  was  better.  But  he  was 
so  tired  of  it.  He  leaned  himself  against  the 
dripping,  cold  pane,  and  regarded  the  lights 
below,  shining  on  the  wet  asphalt  of  the  quais. 
He  was  thirty  years  old  and  ten  years  in  the 
East  had  about  done  for  him.  The  East  does, 
for  many  people.  Yes,  he  reflected  bitterly,  it 
had  about  done  for  him.  It  undermines  peo 
ple,  in  some  mysterious  manner,  and  in  Law- 
son's  case  there  had  been  so  little  to  undermine. 
He  had  little  imagination,  and  could  never 
imagine  the  larger  possibilities  of  life,  and  what 
he  had  missed,  therefore  the  undermining  of 
his  character  was  of  small  account.  He  was 
only  conscious  of  an  intense  boredom,  and  to- 

[74] 


HOMESICK 


night  the  boredom  was  accentuated,  because 
of  the  weather.  He  was  too  inert  to  splash 
about  in  such  a  driving  rain  in  quest  of  a  friend 
more  weary  than  himself. 

If  he  could  just  get  out  of  it  all!  By  which, 
understand,  he  had  not  the  adventurous  spirit 
of  the  beach-comber,  the  adventurer  who  combs 
pleasure  and  profits  from  the  ports  of  the 
China  Coast.  He  wasn't  that  sort.  He  had 
no  desire  to  take  a  sampan  and  row  out  to  the 
nearest  cargo-boat  and  ship  away  to  the 
Southern  Seas,  and  sink  himself  in  romance 
north  or  south  of  the  Line.  No,  the  mystery 
of  the  East,  the  romance  of  foreign  lands  made 
no  appeal  to  him.  And  the  everlasting  mo 
notony  of  his  daily  work,  of  his  daily  associa 
tion  with  his  few  wearied  friends,  clerks  and 
suchlike,  all  minor  and  unimportant  cogs  of 
the  big  machine  overseas,  offered  him  noth 
ing.  Very  decidedly  he  was  homesick.  But 
his  tired  mind  came  upon  a  blank  wall — he  had 
no  home  to  be  homesick  for.  Nothing  com 
pelling,  nothing  to  return  to — all  broken  up 
long  ago,  such  as  it  was,  long  before  he  had 
come  out  to  the  Orient.  Yet  he  was  longing 
for  the  sight  of  his  native  land  again.  Yes, 
[75] 


CIVILIZATION 


that  was  it — just  the  familiar  sight  of  it.  It 
offered  him  nothing  in  the  way  of  tie  or  kin, 
yet  he  was  longing  to  see  it  again,  just  his  own 
native  land.  He  was  exiled  in  China — and  he 
was  exiled  at  Home,  when  you  got  down  to  it 
— but  to-night  his  home  land  drew  him  with 
overwhelming  insistence. 

What  can  you  do,  I'd  like  to  know,  when  you 
are  like  this?  Along  the  outskirts  of  the  Set 
tlement  stood  big  houses,  cheerful  with  lights, 
with  home  life,  with  all  that  the  successful 
ones  had  brought  out  from  Home,  to  establish 
Home  in  the  Orient.  But  Lawson  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  these,  with  all  the  pompous,  suc7 
cessful  ones,  who  ignored  him  completely  and 
were  unaware  of  his  existence.  They  were  all 
superior  to  him,  with  the  superiority  that  new 
found  money  brings,  and  they  looked  down 
upon  him  as  a  cheap  court  runner,  told  off  to 
round  up  the  fan-tan  playing  Chinese.  You 
see,  Lawson  was  common — he  had  sprung 
from  nothing  and  was  nothing.  But  these 
others,  these  successful  ones,  they  too  had 
sprung  from  nothing,  but  out  here  in  the 
Orient  they  had  become  important.  Through 
the  possession  of  certain  qualities  which  Law- 

[76] 


HOMESICK 


son  did  not  possess,  they  had  become  large  and 
prominent  in  the  community.  They  referred 
to  themselves,  among  each  other,  as  "younger 
sons."  Which  left  one  to  infer  that  they  were 
of  distinguished  lineage.  But  Lawson  knew 
better,  an'l  ":new  it  with  great  bitterness.  Like 
himself,  they  were  indeed  "younger  sons" — 
of  greengrocers.  Therefore,  for  that  reason 
perhaps,  they  went  home  seldom,  for  at  home 
they  were  nobodies.  Whereas  out  here — oh, 
out  here,  by  reason  of  certain  qualities  which 
Lawson  did  not  possess,  they  were  important 
and  pompous,  and  lived  in  big  houses,  with 
lights  and  guests  and  servants  and  motors. 
Therefore  Lawson  resented  them,  because  they 
thought  he  was  common.  And  he  was  com 
mon,  he  admitted  bitterly,  but  so  were  they. 
Only  they  were  successful,  by  reason  of  certain 
qualities  which  he  did  not  possess.  They  ig 
nored  him,  and  left  him  alone  in  the  com 
munity,  and  it  is  never  very  good  to  be  too1 
much  alone,  especially  in  the  Far  East.  True, 
they  provided  him  with  his  job — with  his 
wretchedly  paid  little  Government  job,  which 
they  maintained  for  no  altruistic  or  moral  rea 
sons.  To  suppress  gambling  amongst  the 

[77] 


CIVILIZATION 


Chinese?  Perhaps.  Incidentally,  on  the  sur 
face,  it  looked  well.  Looked  well,  he  con 
sidered,  coming  from  those  who  never  helped 
the  Chinese  in  anything  else.  Who  exploited 
them,  in  all  possible  ways,  and  undermined 
them — undermined  the  Chinese  who  were 
pretty  well  done  for  anyway,  by  nature,  being 
Chinese.  No,  he  reflected  savagely — he  had 
heard  the  story — one  night  some  big  personage 
living  in  one  of  the  big  houses,  to  which  he  was 
never  invited — had  given  a  big  dinner,  with 
much  wine  and  fine  food  and  many  guests  and 
all  the  rest  of  it — and  what  happened?  No 
servants,  or  rather  many  servants  without 
liveries  or  clothing  of  any  kind,  everything 
having  been  pawned  the  evening  before  over 
the  fan-tan  tables.  Therefore  he,  Lawson,  was 
employed  by  Government  to  suppress  these 
gambling  houses,  to  keep  the  servants  from 
stealing  and  pawning  their  liveries,  making 
embarrassment  in  the  big,  foreign-style  houses, 
making  amusement  and  consternation  and 
scandal.  He  had  happened  along  shortly  after 
this  affair,  and  so  obtained  the  appointment. 

Lawson  leaned  his  forehead  against  the  cold 
glass,  down  which  the  rain  poured  in  sheets. 

[78] 


HOMESICK 

The  lights  of  the  French  mail  glimmered  in 
termittently  through  the  darkness — to-mor-^ 
row  she  would  weigh  anchor  and  be  off  for 
Marseilles,  for  Home.  Not  that  he  had  a 
home,  as  we  have  said,  but  he  longed  for  the 
familiar  look  of  things,  for  the  crowds  all 
speaking  his  own  tongue,  for  the  places  he 
knew,  the  well  known  street  signs,  and  the  big 
hoardings.  And  he  couldn't  go  back.  He  had 
not  money  enough  to  go  back.  Every  penny 
of  his  little  salary  went  for  living  expenses  and 
living  comes  high  in  China.  To  say  nothing 
of  the  passage  money  and  the  money  for  after 
wards A  gentle  cough  behind  him  made 

him  turn  round  in  a  hurry.  His  China-boy 
stood  expectantly  in  the  doorway. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Lawson  sharply. 
Ah  Chang  drew  in  his  breath,  not  wishing  to 
breathe  upon  his  superior.  The  indrawn, 
hissing  noise  irritated  Lawson  immensely.  He 
had  been  out  ten  years,  and  in  that  time  had 
never  learned  that  Ah  Chang  and  the  others 
were  showing  him  respect,  deep  proofs  of 
Oriental  respect,  when  they  sucked  in  their 
breath  with  that  hissing  noise,  to  avoid  breath 
ing  upon  a  superior.  To  Lawson  it  was  just 

[79] 


CIVILIZATION 


another  horrid  trait,  another  horrid  native  char 
acteristic. 

"Man  come  see  Master,"  observed  Ah 
Chang,  addressing  space  impersonally.  "Heap 
plenty  important  business.  You  see?" 

Anything  for  a  change  this  dreary  evening. 
"Very  well,"  said  Lawson,  "I  see." 

In  a  moment  or  two,  a  tall  Chinese  shuffled 
into  the  room,  bowing  repeatedly  with  hands 
on  knees.  After  which  he  passed  his  long  slim 
hands  up  into  the  sleeves  of  his  satin  coat,  and 
waited  quietly  till  the  boy  withdrew.  He  gave 
a  swift  look  about  the  room,  a  glance  so  hur 
ried  that  it  seemed  impossible  he  could  have 
satisfied  himself  that  they  were  alone,  and  then, 
began  to  speak.  Lawson  recognised  him  at 
once  as  the  keeper  of  a  house  he  had  raided  the 
week  before,  a  big,  crowded  place,  where  the 
police  had  captured  a  score  of  players  and 
much  money.  It  was  an  important  haul,  a  no 
torious  den,  that  they  had  been  after  for  a 
long  time.  Only  it  changed  its  location  so  often, 
moved  from  place  to  place  each  night,  or  so 
it  seemed,  that  Lawson  had  spent  months  try 
ing  to  find  it.  It  is  not  easy  finding  such 
places  in  the  crowded,  native  streets  of  the 

[80] 


HOMESICK 

Concession,  and  he  had  stumbled  upon  it  by  a 
piece  of  sheer  luck.  And  the  proprietor  had 
been  heavily  fined  and  heavily  warned,  yet 
here  he  stood  to-night,  silent,  respectful,  hands 
up  his  sleeves,  waiting.  For  once  in  his  life, 
Lawson's  imagination  worked.  He  foresaw 
something  portentous  looming  in  the  back 
ground  of  that  impenetrable  mind,  revealed  in 
the  steady,  unblinking  stare  of  those  slanting 
Chinese  eyes,  fixed  steadily  and  fearlessly  and 
patiently  upon  his. 

"Sit  down,"  he  commanded,  with  a  sweep  of 
his  hand  towards  an  upright  chair. 

•        •••        ••••• 

After  his  visitor  had  departed,  Lawson  stood 
lost  in  thought.  He  was  not  angry,  yet  he 
should  have  been,  he  realised.  Assuredly  he 
should  have  been  angry,  assuredly  he  should 
have  kicked  his  visitor  downstairs.  But  as  it 
was,  he  remained  in  deep  thought,  pondering 
over  a  suggestion  that  had  been  made  to  him. 
The  suggestion,  stripped  of  certain  Oriental 
qualities  of  flowery  phraseology  and  translated 
from  pidgin-English  into  business  English, 
was  the  merest,  most  vague  hint  of  an  exchange 
of  favours.  So  slight  was  the  hint,  but  so  over- 

[81] 


CIVILIZATION 


whelming  the  possibilities  suggested,  that,  as 
we  have  said,  Lawson  had  not  kicked  his  visitor 
downstairs,  but  remained  standing  lost  in 
thought  for  several  moments  after  his  depar 
ture.  As  he  had  stood  earlier  in  the  day,  with 
one  foot  in  the  Foreign  Concession,  and  the 
other  on  Chinese  soil,  considering  the  different 
standards  that  obtained  in  each,  so  he  stood 
now,  figuratively,  on  the  boundary  line  of  an 
ethical  problem  and  swayed  mentally  first  to 
wards  one  side  and  then  the  other.  The  irony 
of  it,  the  humour  of  it,  appealed  to  him.  It 
seemed  so  insanely  just — just  what  you  might 
expect.  He  had  been  asked — that  was  too 
definite  a  word — to  forego  his  activities  for  a 
few  brief  weeks.  And  during  those  few  brief 
weeks  he  could  repay  himself,  week  by  week,  on 

Friday  nights 

He  had  been  merely  asked — too  strong  a 
word — the  suggestion  had  been  merely  hinted 
at — he  balanced  himself  back  and  forth  over 
the  problem.  If  his  efforts  during  the  next  few 
weeks  should  prove  fruitless,  possible  enough, 
considering  the  wily  race  he  was  dealing  with 

And  in  exchange,  well,  once  a  week  on 

Friday  night,  he  could  slip  outside  the  bouni 

[82] 


HOMESICK 


daries  of  the  Concession  to  a  large,  foreign 
gambling  house  kept  by  and  for  his  own  peo 
ple.  By  his  own  people,  the  Europeans,  who 
employed  him  to  eradicate  gambling  from 
amongst  the  Chinese.  Do  you  wonder  that  he 
shifted  himself  back  and  forth,  morally,  first 
from  this  point  of  view,  then  to  that?  His 
own  people  who  objected  to  gaming,  when  it  in 
volved  the  loss  of  their  servants'  liveries.  But 
they  had  no  such  scruples  when  it  came  to  their 
own  pleasure.  Therefore,  for  their  own  plea 
sure,  careless  of  the  inconsistency,  they  had 
established  a  very  fine  place  of  their  own  just 
outside  the  boundaries  of  the  foreign  Conces 
sion.  Lawson  had  heard  of  the  place  before — 
the  most  famous,  the  most  notorious  on  the 
China  Coast.  Kept  by  the  son  of  a  parson,  so 
he  had  been  told,  a  University  graduate. 
Once,  ten  years  ago,  he  had  gone  there  and  lost 
a  month's  pay  in  an  evening.  But  now  it  was 
to  be  different.  He  could  go  there  now,  every 
Friday  night,  and  reap  the  reward  of  his  in 
ability  to  discover  Chinese  dens  within  the  Con 
cession. 

For  nearly  an  hour  he  remained  undecided, 
then  determined  to  test  the  offer  made  him — 

[83] 


CIVILIZATION 


but  offer  was  too  strong  a  word.  And  his 
salary  was  so  meagre,  so  abominably  small. 
And  the  people  in  the  big  houses  would  have 
none  of  him,  they  never  invited  him,  he  was 
left  so  alone,  to  himself.  He  was  intensely 
homesick.  Therefore,  still  on  the  boundary 
line,  he  went  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  a 
certain  number.  In  a  confident  manner  he 
asked  for  a  limousine.  After  which  he  got 
into  his  overcoat,  muffled  himself  up  well 
around  the  ears  and  nose,  for  the  air  outside 
was  cold  with  a  biting  north  wind,  and  the  rain 
still  drove  slantwise  in  torrents.  In  a  few 
moments  Ah  Chang  announced  that  the  cal- 
liage  had  come. 

Round  the  corner  from  his  lodgings  on  a  side 
street  and  in  darkness,  stood  a  big  car  with 
the  motor  puffing  violently.  It  was  a  big,  hand 
some  car,  very  long,  and  on  the  front  seat  sat 
two  men  in  livery,  one  of  whom  jumped  down 
briskly  to  open  the  door.  Lawson  entered  and 
sank  down  into  the  soft  cushions,  for  it  was 
very  luxurious.  Then  the  car  moved  on  briskly, 
without  any  directions  from  himself,  and  he 
leaned  back  upon  the  cushions  and  took  plea 
sure  in  the  luxury  of  it,  and  of  the  two  men  in 

[84] 


HOMESICK 


livery  upon  the  front  seat,  and  enjoyed  the 
pouring  rain  which  dashed  upon  the  glass,  yet 
left  him  so  dry  and  comfortable  within.  "They 
will  only  think  it's  inconsistent — that's  all,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "if  they  ever  find  out — which 
is  unlikely." 

Beyond  the  confines  of  the  Settlement  the 
motor  rapidly  made  its  way,  slipping  noise 
lessly  over  the  smooth,  wet  asphalt,  and  then 
out  along  the  bumpy  roads  beyond  the  city 
limits.  All  was  dark  now,  the  street  lamps  hav 
ing  been  left  behind  with  the  ending  of  the 
good  roads,  and  the  car  jolted  along  slowly, 
over  deep  ruts.  A  stretch  of  open  country 
intervened  between  the  Settlement  and  a  na 
tive  village  of  clustering  mud  huts.  Lawson, 
having  no  imagination,  was  not  impressed  with 
his  position.  People  did  all  sorts  of  things  in 
China,  just  as  elsewhere — only  here,  in  China, 
it  was  so  much  easier  to  get  away  with  it.  Hisi 
coming  to-night  might  be  considered  incon-' 
sistent,  he  repeated  over  and  over  to  himself, 
but  nothing  more.  Every  one  did  it,  he  reas 
sured  himself. 

The  car  stopped  finally,  before  a  pair  of 
high,  very  solid  black  gates,  and  the  footman 

[85] 


CIVILIZATION 


jumped  off  the  box  to  open  the  door.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  small  grill  with  a  yellow  face 
peeping  out,  backed  by  flickering  lantern  light, 
of  a  rainy,  windswept  compound,  with  a  shaft 
of  light  from  an  open  door  flooding  the  court 
yard.  Then  he  was  inside  a  warm,  bright  ante 
room,  with  an  obsequious  China-boy  relieving 
him  of  overcoat  and  muffler,  and  he  became 
aware  of  many  big,  fur-lined  overcoats,  hang 
ing  on  pegs  on  the  wall.  Beyond,  in  the  ad 
joining  room,  were  two  long  tables,  the  players 
seated  with  their  backs  to  him,  absorbed.  Only 
a  few  people  were  present,  for  the  night  was 
early.  There  was  no  one  there  he  knew — even 
had  there  been,  he  would  not  have  cared.  He 
drew  out  a  chair  and  seated  himself  confidently, 
while  a  China-boy  pushed  a  box  of  cigars  to 
wards  him,  a  very  good  brand.  And  behind 
came  another  boy  with  a  tray  of  whisky  and 
soda,  while  a  third  boy  carried  sandwiches.  It 
was  all  very  well  done,  he  thought  absently. 
The  proprietor,  being  a  parson's  son  and  a 
University  graduate,  did  it  very  well.  There 
was  no  disorder,  it  was  all  beautifully  done. 
He  wondered  what  amount  of  squeeze  the 
Chinese  received,  for  allowing  such  a  fine  place 
[86] 


HOMESICK 

to  remain  undisturbed  on  Chinese  soil.  A  very 
big  squeeze,  certainly.  They  would  surely  be 
very  grasping,  considering  the  warfare  waged 
against  them,  upon  their  own  establishments, 
by  the  Europeans.  It  was  all  very  interesting. 
Lawson  considered  the  matter  critically,  from 
various  angles,  knowing  what  he  knew.  He 
sorted  his  chips  carefully.  It  must  pay  the 
parson's  son  well,  he  concluded,  to  be  able  to 
run  such  a  fine  place,  in  such  style,  with  so 
much  to  eat  and  drink  and  all,  and  with  all 
those  motors  to  carry  out  the  guests.  All  this 
in  addition  to  the  squeeze — it  must  really  be  an 
enormous  squeeze.  And  the  people  for  whose 
amusement  this  was  established,  were  the  peo 
ple  who  were  employing  him 

For  a  brief,  fleeting  second  his  eye  rested 
upon  the  calm,  unquestioning  face  of  the 
Chinese  at  the  wheel,  brother  of  the  proprietor 
of  the  fan-tan  place  he  had  raided  a  week  ago. 
The  placid  eye  of  the  Oriental  fixed  his  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second,  even  as  he  called  out  the 
winning  numbers.  There  was  no  recognition 
either  way,  yet  Lawson  felt  himself  flushing. 
The  wheel  spun  again  and  slowly  stopped,  and 
he  found  himself  gathering  in  thirty-five  chips, 

[87] 


CIVILIZATION 


raking  them  in  with  eager  fingers  over  the 
green  cloth.     It  was  all  right  then,  after  all! 

Lawson  was  going  home.  Speaking  about* 
this,  some  said,  Well  enough — he  has  become 
quite  incompetent  of  late.  Getting  stale,  prob 
ably.  Unable  to  discover  the  obvious,  losing 
his  keenness.  Ten  years  in  the  Far  East  about 
does  for  one.  But  with  Lawson,  the  situation 
was  different.  He  had  become  so  tired  of 
boundary  lines,  of  perpetual  swaying  back  and 
forth  from  one  side  to  the  other,  without  con 
viction.  Geographical  and  moral  concessions, 
wrong  here,  right  there,  had  blurred  his  sense 
of  the  abstract.  All  he  was  conscious  of  was 
an  overwhelming  desire  to  leave  it  all  and  go 
home.  And  now  he  was  going  home.  He  was 
very  glad.  It  hurt  to  be  so  glad.  He  was  go 
ing  away  from  China,  forever.  He  was  going 
back  to  his  own  land,  where  he  was  born,  where 
he  belonged,  even  though  there  was  no  one  to 
welcome  his  return.  There  was  no  roof  to 
receive  him  save  an  attic  roof,  rented  for  a  few 
shillings  a  week.  For  though  he  had  plenty 
of  money  now,  he  still  thought  in  small  sums. 
He  was  glad  to  be  going  home — the  joy  was 

[88] 


HOMESICK 


painful.  His  chief  praised  him  a  little  at  part 
ing,  and  said  he  had  done  good  work  and  hoped 
his  successor  would  do  as  well.  Regretted  his 
departure  at  this  moment,  since  that  old  fellow 
who  kept  such  a  notorious  den  was  breaking 
loose  again,  more  villainous,  more  elusive  than 
ever.  Lawson  heard  this  with  astonishment, 
with  infinite  regret.  Wished  he  could  have 
stayed  to  see  it  ended. 

He  was  going  home.  It  hurt  to  be  so  glad. 
In  all  these  years  he  had  been  so  utterly  lonely, 
so  utterly  miserable.  His  few  companions  came 
down  to  the  landing  stage  on  the  Bund  to  see' 
him  off,  to  wish  him  luck.  They  were  rather 
wistful,  for  they  also  knew  loneliness.  They 
had  tried  to  forget  about  this  longing  for  home 
in  the  many  ways  of  forgetfulness  that  the 
East  offered,  nevertheless  they  were  wistful. 
Lawson  understood,  he  felt  great  pity  for 
them.  He  advised  them  to  get  away  before 
they  were  done  for,  for  the  East  does  for  many 
people  in  the  long  run.  The  launch,  waiting 
to  take  him  down  river  where  the  steamer  lay 
anchored,  grated  against  the  steps  of  the  land 
ing  stage,  as  if  eager  to  be  off. 

"I  wish,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "that  we 
[80] 


CIVILIZATION 


had  your  luck — that  we  too  were  going  home." 
Lawson's  heart  ached  for  them.    He  had  ex 
perience  but  no  imagination.     "Yes,"  he  said 
simply,  "it  is  very  good  to  be  going  Home." 


[90] 


CIVILIZATION 


IV 

CIVILIZATION" 


MAUBEBT  leaned  against  the  counter  in  his 
wine-shop,  reading  a  paper  that  had  just 
come  to  him — an  official  looking  paper,  which 
he  held  unsteadily,  unwillingly,  and  which 
trembled  a  little  between  his  big,  thick  fingers. 
Behind  the  counter  sat  Madame  Maubert, 
knitting.  Before  her,  ranged  neatly  on  the 
zinc  covered  shelf,  was  a  row  of  inverted  wine 
glasses,  three  of  them  still  dripping,  having 
been  washed  after  the  last  customers  by  a  hasty 
dip  into  a  bucket  of  cold  water. 

"Mobilised,"  said  Maubert  slowly.  "I  am 
mobilised — at  last."  Madame  Maubert  looked 
up  from  her  knitting.  For  a  year  now  they 
had  both  been  expecting  this,  for  the  war  had 
been  going  on  for  over  a  year,  and  Maubert, 
while  over  age  and  below  par  in  physical  con 
dition,  was  still  a  man  and  as  such  likely  to  be 

[93] 


CIVILIZATION 


called  into  the  reserves.  The  two  exchanged 
glances. 

"When?"  asked  Madame  Maubert,  resum 
ing  her  clicking. 

"At  once,  imbecile,"  replied  her  husband 
stolidly.  "Naturally,"  he  continued,  "when 
one  is  at  last  sent  for,  there  can  be  no  delay. 
I  must  report  at  once." 

"Oh,  la  la,"  said  Madame  Maubert,  non- 
committally. 

Maubert  glanced  round  his  shop,  his  little 
wine-shop,  his  lucrative  little  business  that  he 
had  made  successful.  Very  well.  His  wife  must 
run  it  alone  now,  as  best  she  could.  As  best 
she  could,  that  was  evident.  She  could  do  many 
things  well.  She  must  do  it  now  while  he  went 
forth  into  service  of  some  kind — into  a  muni 
tion  factory  probably,  or  perhaps  near  the 
front,  as  orderly  to  an  officer,  or  as  sentinel, 
perhaps,  along  some  road  in  the  First  Zone  of 
the  Armies.  He  would  not  be  placed  on  active 
service — he  was  too  old  for  that.  Nevertheless 
it  meant  a  horrid  jarring  out  of  his  usual  rou 
tine  of  life,  consequently  he  was  angry  and  re 
sentful,  and  there  was  no  fine  glow  of  pride  or! 
patriotism  or  such-like  feeling  in  his  breast. 

[94] 


CIVILIZATION 


Bah!  All  that  sort  of  thing  had  vanished  from 
men  long  and  long  ago,  after  the  first  few  bit 
ter  weeks  of  war  and  of  realisation  of  the  mean 
ing  of  war.  War  was  now  an  affair — a  sordid, 
ugly  affair,  and  Maubert  knew  it  as  well  as  any 
man.  Living  in  his  backwater  of  a  village, 
keeper  of  the  principal  wine-shop  of  the  village, 
his  zinc  counter  rang  every  night  under  em 
phatic  fists,  emphasising  emphatic  remarks 
about  the  war,  and  the  remarks  were  true  but 
devoid  of  romance.  They  differed  consider 
ably  from  the  tone  of  the  daily  press. 

From  the  kitchen  beyond  came  the  clatter 
ing  of  dishes,  and  some  talking  in  immature, 
childish  voices,  and  the  insistent,  piping  tones 
of  a  quite  young  child.  They  were  all  in  there, 
all  four  of  them,  the  eldest  twelve,  the  young 
est  four,  and  Maubert  and  his  wife  leaned 
across  the  zinc  counter  and  looked  at  each 
other. 

"It  is  your  fault,"  he  said  slowly,  with  con 
viction.  His  eyes,  deep  set,  ugly,  sunken, 
glared  angrily  into  hers.  "It  is  your  fault 
that  I  am  mobilised." 

She  sat  still,  rather  bewildered,  gazing  at 
[95] 


CIVILIZATION 


him  steadily.  "You  wished  it !"  he  began  again, 
"You  coward!  You  trembling  coward!" 

Still  Madame  Maubert  made  no  sign,  wait^ 
ing  further  explanations.  She  laid  down  her 
knitting  and  took  her  elbows  in  her  hands, 
and  by  gripping  her  elbows  firmly,  stopped  the 
trembling  he  spoke  of. 

"You  don't  understand,  eh?"  he  went  on 
sneeringly.  "Always  thinking  of  yourself,  of 
your  pretty  figure,  how  to  keep  yourself  al 
ways  here  at  the  bar,  pretty  and  attractive, 
ready  to  gossip  with  all  comers.  Nothing  must 
interrupt  that.  You'd  done  your  share,  all 
that  was  necessary.  And  I — poor  fool — I  let 
you!  I  didn't  insist — I  gave  in " 

"You  wish  to  say ?"  began  Madame 

Maubert  at  last,  breaking  her  silence. 

"Yes!  To  say  just  that!"  burst  out  Mau 
bert.  "Just  that — you  coward!  When  you 
might  have — when  you  might  have — made  this 
out  of  the  question  for  me."  He  shook  his  order 
for  mobilisation.  Again  there  was  a  noise  from 
the  kitchen,  again  the  sound  of  many  young 
voices,  and  one  voice  that  ended  in  a  cry,  an 
irritated,  angry,  querulous  howl. 

"I  see,"  said  Madame  Maubert  slowly,  "five 
[96] 


CIVILIZATION 


instead  of  four — five  would  have  made  it  safe 
for  you — eh?  I  didn't  think  of  that — at  the 
time." 

"Of  your  own  self  at  the  time — as  always!" 
ground  out  Maubert,  very  angry.  He  was  a 
very  big  man,  of  the  bully  type,  with  a  red  neck 
that  swelled  under  his  anger,  or  on  the  occa 
sions  when  he  had  taken  too  much  red  wine — 
which  meant  that  it  swelled  very  often  and 
made  him  a  great  brute,  and  his  wife  disliked 
him,  and  tried  to  put  the  zinc  counter  between 
them  or  anything  else  that  gave  shelter. 

"You  selfish  coward!"  he  cried  out  again, 
and  slammed  his  fist  down,  and  then  raised  it 
again  and  shook  it  at  her.  "You  could  have 
saved  me  from  this — this — being  mobilised 

!  Five  instead  of  four!  Five  instead  of 

four!  Then  I  would  have  been  exempt,  no 

matter  what  happened!  You  comtemptible 
» 

He  struck  at  his  wife,  but  missed  her.  The 
doorway  darkened  and  two  soldiers  entered, 
limping. 

"My  husband  is  mobilised,"  exclaimed 
Madame  Maubert  quickly.  "His  country 
needs  him — he  is  rather  elevated  in  conse- 

[97] 


CIVILIZATION 


quence!  Doubtless  he  will  be  of  the  auxil 
iaries,  where  there  is  less  danger.  Discomfort, 
perhaps,  but  less  danger.  Nevertheless  he  is 
regretful,"  she  concluded  scornfully.  The 
simple  soldiers,  home  on  leave,  laughed  up 
roariously.  They  placed  a  few  sous  upon  the 
counter  and  asked  for  wine,  and  drank  to 
Maubert  solicitously.  Then  they  all  drank  to 
gether,  to  one  another's  good  fortune,  and  to 
La  Patrie. 

II 

Maubert  was  at  the  Front.  Near  it,  that  is, 
but  in  the  First  Zone  of  the  Armies  and  shut 
off  from  communication  with  the  rear.  He 
was  shut  off  from  communication  with  his  wife 
and  family,  isolated  in  a  little  hut  standing  by 
the  roadside,  his  sentry  box.  A  little  box  of 
straw  standing  upright  on  the  roadside,  and 
with  just  enough  room  for  him  inside,  also 
standing  upright.  No  more.  Whenever  he 
heard  the  whir  of  a  motor  coming  down  the 
road,  he  opened  his  front  door  and  stood  square 
ly  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway,  waving  a  red 
flag  by  day  or  a  lantern  by  night,  and  expect 
ing,  both  night  and  day,  to  be  run  down  and 

[98] 


CIVILIZATION 


killed  by  the  onrushing  motor.  He  flagged  the 
ambulances  and  got  cursed  for  it.  He  llagged 
the  General's  car  and  got  cursed  for  it.  Im 
possible  pieces  of  paper  were  shoved  out  to 
him  to  read,  filled  with  unintelligible  hierogly 
phics,  which  he  could  not  read,  which  he  made 
a  vain  pretence  of  reading  and  then  concluded 
were  all  right.  After  which  the  car  or  the  am 
bulance  dashed  on  again,  and  he  communed 
with  himself  within  his  hut,  wondering  whether 
the  car  was  carrying  a  uniformed  spy,  or 
whether  the  ambulance  was  carrying  a  spy  hid 
den  under  its  brown  wings,  beneath  the  seat 
somewhere.  It  was  all  so  perplexing  and  pre 
carious,  this  business  of  sentry  duty.  The  pa 
pers  issued  by  the  D.E.S.  were  so  illegible. 
Sometimes  they  were  blue,  sometimes  pink,  and 
the  remarks  written  on  them  were  such  that  no 
one  could  understand  or  know  what  they  were 
about.  People  had  the  right  to  circulate  by 
this  road  or  that — and  when  they  were  trying 
to  circulate  by  a  route  not  specified  in  the  blue 
or  pink  paper,  they  always  explained  glibly 
that  it  was  because  they  had  missed  the  way, 
and  made  the  wrong  turning.  It  was  all  so( 
perplexing.  Whenever  he  stopped  their  cars, 

[99] 


CIVILIZATION 


the  General  was  always  so  furiously  impatient, 
and  the  ambulance  drivers  were  always  so  furi 
ously  impatient,  and  one  asked  you  if  you  did 
not  respect  the  Army  of  France,  and  the  other 
if  you  did  not  respect  the  wounded  of  France, 
if  you  had  no  pity  for  them,  and  must  delay 
them — altogether  it  was  very  perplexing. 
Maubert  always  had  the  impression  that  if  he 
failed  in  his  duties,  if  he  let  through  a  general 
who  wore  stripes  and  medals  galore,  yet  who 
was  a  spy  general,  that  he  would  be  court- 
martialed  and  shot.  Or  if  he  let  through  an 
ambulance  full  of  wounded — apparently — yet 
with  a  spy  concealed  in  the  body — that  he 
would  be  courtmartialed  and  shot.  Always  he 
had  in  his  mind  this  fear  of  being  court- 
martialed  and  shaft,  and  it  made  him  very 
nervous,  and  he  did  not  like  to  tell  people  that 
he  could  barely  read  and  write.  Very  barely 
able  to  read  and  write,  and  totally  unable  to 
read  the  hieroglyphics  written  on  the  pink  and 
blue  papers  issued  down  the  road  by  Head 
quarters,  at  the  D.E.S.  He  felt  that  some  one 
ought  to  know  these  facts  about  himself,  these 
extenuating  circumstances,  in  case  of  trouble. 
Yet  he  hesitated  to  give  himself  away.  Bad  as 
[100] 


CIVILIZATION 


it  was,  there  were  worse  jobs  than  sentry  duty." 
A  little  way  down  the  road  there  was  an  es- 
taminet,  where  he  slept  when  he  could,  where 
he  spent  his  leisure  hours,  where  he  bought/ 
as  much  wine  as  he  could  pay  for.  But  his  * 
sentry  box  always  confronted  him,  which 
leaked  when  it  rained,  and  the  wind  blew 
through  it,  and  on  certain  days,  when  there  was 
much  travel  by  the  road,  he  hardly  spent  a 
moment  inside  it  but  was  always  standing  in 
the  mud  and  wind  of  the  highway,  waving  his 
flag,  and  stopping  impatient,  snorting  motors. 
And  always  pretending  that  he  could  read  the 
pink  and  blue  papers,  angrily  thrust  out  for 
his  inspection.  Too  great  a  responsibility  for 
one  who  could  barely  read  and  write. 

Came  the  time,  eventually,  for  his  leave. 
Five  days  permission.  One  day  to  get  to  Paris. 
One  day  from  Paris  to  his  province.  One  day 
in  his  province  at  home  with  his  wife.  One  day 
back  to  Paris,  one  day  to  get  back  to  his  sentry 
box  in  the  First  Zone  of  the  Armies.  Not 
much  time,  all  considered.  He  bought  a  bottle 
of  wine  at  the  estaminet,  and  got  aboard  the 
train  for  Paris.  Somewhere  along  the  route 
came  a  long  stop,  and  he  bought  another  bot- 
[101] 


CIVILIZATION 


tie  of  wine — forty  centimes.  Another  stop,  and 
another  bottle  of  wine.  He  thought  much  of 
his  wife  during  these  long  hours  of  the  journey 
— thoughts  augmented  and  made  glowing  by 
three  bottles  of  wine.  She  wasn't  so  bad,  after 
all. 

The  Gare  Montparnasse  was  reached,  and 
he  got  off,  dizzily,  to  change  trains.  He  knew, 
vaguety,  that  to  get  to  his  province  in  the  in 
terior,  he  must  first  somehow  get  to  the  Gare 
du  Nord.  There  was  a  Metro  entrance  some 
where  about  the  Gare  Montparnasse  and  he 
tried  to  find  it.  The  Metro  would  take  him  to 
the  Gare  du  Nord.  No  good.  Such  crowds  of 
people  all  about,  and  they  called  him  Mon 
Vieux,  and  pulled  him  this  way  and  that, 
laughing  with  him,  offering  him  cigarettes  and 
happy  comments,  received  by  a  brain  in  which 
three  bottles  of  wine  were  already  fermenting. 
Thus  it  happened  that  he  missed  the  Metro 
entrance,  and  instead  of  finding  a  metro  to 
take  him  to  the  Gare  du  Nord,  he  missed  the 
entrance,  turned  quite  wrong,  and  walked  up 
the  middle  of  the  rue  de  la  Gaiete.  And  be 
cause  of  the  three  bottles  of  wine  within  him 
— entirely  within  his  head — he  walked  light- 
[102] 


CIVILIZATION 


heartedly  up  the  rue  de  la  Gaiete,  with  his 
helmet  tossed  backwards  on  his  shaggy  head, 
his  heavy  kit  swinging  in  disordered  fashion 
from  his  shoulders,  his  mouth  open,  shouting 
meaningless  things  to  the  passers-by,  and  his 
steps  very  short,  jerky  and  unsteady.  Thus  it 
happened,  that  many  people,  seeing  him  in  this] 
condition,  shuddered,  and  asked  what  France 
had  come  to,  when  she  must  place  her  faith  in 
such  men  as  that.  Other  people,  however, 
laughed  at  him,  and  made  way  for  him,  or 
closed  in  on  him  and  squeezed  his  arm,  and 
whispered  things  into  his  ears.  Back  and  forth 
he  ricochetted  along  the  narrow  street,  singing 
and  swinging,  mouth  open,  with  strange,  happy 
cries  coming  from  it.  Some  laughed  and  said 
what  a  pity,  and  others  laughed  and  said  how 
perfectly  natural  and  what  could  you  expect. 
Presently  down  the  street  came  a  big,  double 
decked  tramcar,  and  Maubert  stood  in  front 
of  the  tramcar,  refusing  to  give  way.  It  should 
have  presented  a  blue  paper  to  him — or  a  pink 
paper — anyway,  there  he  stood  in  front  of  it, 
asking  for  its  permission  to  circulate,  and  as 
it  had  no  permission,  it  stopped  within  an  inch 
of  running  over  him,  while  the  conductor 
[103] 


CIVILIZATION 


leaned  forward  shouting  curses.  Then  it  was 
that  a  firm  but  gentle  hand  inserted  itself  with 
in  Maubert's  arm,  while  a  firm  but  gentle  voice 
asked  Maubert  to  be  a  good  boy  and  come  with 
her.  Maubert  was  very  dazed,  and  also  per 
plexed  that  he  had  not  received  a  paper  from 
the  big,  double-decked  tramcar,  which  ob 
viously  had  no  right  to  circulate  without  such 
permission,  sanctioned  by  himself.  He  was 
gently  drawn  off  the  tracks,  by  that  unknown 
arm,  while  the  big  tramcar  proceeded  on  its 
way  without  permission.  It  was  all  wrong,  yet 
Maubert  felt  himself  drawn  to  one  side  of  the 
roadway,  felt  himself  still  propelled  along  by 
that  gentle  but  firm  arm,  and  looked  to  see  who 
was  leading  him.  He  was  quite  satisfied  by 
what  he  saw.  The  three  bottles  of  wine  made 
him  very  uncritical,  but  they  also  inflamed 
certain  other  faculties.  To  these  other  facul 
ties  his  befogged  mind  gave  quick  response.  To 
Hell  with  the  tramcar,  papers  or  no  papers, 
pink  or  blue.  Also,  although  not  quite  so 
emphatically,  he  relinquished  all  thoughts  of 
arriving  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  of  finding 
a  train  to  take  him  home  to  his  province,  where 
his  wife  lived.  The  reasons  that  made  him  de- 
[104] 


CIVILIZATION 


sire  his  wife,  were  quite  satisfied  with  the  gentle 
pressure  on  his  arm.  Thus  it  happened  that 
big  Maubert,  shaggy  and  dirty  and  drunk, 
reeling  down  the  rue  de  la  Gaiete,  very  sudden 
ly  gave  up  all  idea  of  finding  his  way  to  his 
province  in  the  interior. 

Never  mind  about  those  three  days  in  Paris. 
Maubert  was  quite  sober  when  he  got  on  the 
train  again  at  Montparnasse.  He  did  not  re 
gret  his  larger  vacation.  He  had  had  a  very 
good  permission,  take  it  all  in  all. 


Ill 

At  about  the  time  that  Maubert  found  him 
self  mobilised  and  summoned  into  the  reserves, 
a  further  mobilisation  of  subjects  of  the 
French  Empire  was  taking  place  in  certain 
little  known,  outlying  dominions  of  the  "Em 
pire."  I  should  have  said  Republic  or  even 
Democracy.  The  result,  however,  is  all  the 
same.  In  certain  outlying  portions  of  the 
mighty  Empire  or  Republic  or  Democracy,  as 
you  will,  further  mobilisation  of  French  sub 
jects  was  taking  place,  although  in  these  outly 
ing  dominions  the  forces  were  not  mobilised  but 
[105] 


CIVILIZATION 


volunteered.  That  is  to  say,  the  headsman  or 
chief  of  a  certain  village,  lying  somewhere  be 
tween  the  Equator  and  ten  degrees  North  lati 
tude,  was  requested  by  those  in  authority  to  fur 
nish  so  many  volunteers.  The  word  being  thus 
passed  round,  volunteers  presented  themselves, 
voluntarily.  Among  them  was  Ouk.  Ouk 
knew,  having  been  so  informed  by  the  heads 
man  of  his  village,  that  failure  to  respond  to 
this  opportunity  meant  a  voluntary  sojourn  in 
the  jungle.  Ouk  hated  the  jungle.  All  his 
life  he  had  lived  in  terror  of  it,  of  the  evil  forces 
of  the  jungle,  strangling  and  venomous,  there 
fore  he  did  not  wish  to  take  refuge  amongst 
them,  for  he  knew  them  well.  Of  the  two  al 
ternatives,  the  risks  of  civilization  seemed  pref 
erable.  Civilization  was  an  unknown  quantity, 
whereas  the  jungle  was  familiar  to  himself  and 
his  ancestors,  and  the  fear  transmitted  by  his 
ancestors  was  firmly  emplanted  in  his  mind. 
Therefore  he  had  no  special  desire  to  sojourn 
amongst  the  mighty  forces  of  the  forest,  which 
he  knew  to  be  overwhelming.  At  that  time,  he 
did  not  know  that  the  forces  of  civilization  were 
equally  sinister,  equally  overwhelming.  All 
his  belated  brain  knew,  was  that  if  he  failed  to 
[106] 


CIVILIZATION 


answer  the  call  of  those  in  authority,  he  must 
take  refuge  in  the  forests.  Which  was  sure 
death.  It  was  sure  death  to  wander  defence 
less,  unarmed,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  noon 
day,  enveloped  by  dense  overgrowth,  avoiding 
venomous  serpents  and  vile  stinging  insects  by 
day,  and  crouching  by  night  from  man-eating 
tigers.  It  presented  therefore,  no  pleasant  al 
ternative — no  free  wandering  amidst  beautiful, 
tropical  trees  and  vines  heavy  with  luscious 
fruits — there  would  be  no  drinking  from  run 
ning  streams  in  pleasant,  sunlit  clearings.  Ouk 
knew  the  jungle,  and  as  the  alternative  was 
civilization,  he  chose  civilization  which  he  did 
not  yet  know.  Therefore  he  freely  offered 
himself  one  evening,  coming  from  his  native 
village  attired  in  a  gay  sarong,  a  peaked  hat, 
and  nothing  more.  He  entered  a  camp,  where 
he  found  himself  in  company  with  other  volun 
teers,  pressed  into  the  service  of  civilization  by 
the  same  pressure  that  had  so  appealed  to  him 
self.  There  were  several  hundred  of  them  in  this 
camp,  all  learning  the  ways  of  Europe,  and 
learning  with  difficulty  and  pain.  The  most 
painful  thing,  perhaps,  were  the  coarse  leather 
shoes  they  were  obliged  to  wear.  Ouk's  feet 
[107] 


CIVILIZATION 


had  been  accustomed  to  being  bare — clad,  on 
extreme  occasions,  with  pliant  straw  sandals. 
He  garbed  them  now,  according  to  instruc 
tions,  in  hard,  coarse  leather  shoes,  furnished 
by  those  in  authority,  which  they  told  him 
would  do  much  to  protect  his  sensitive  feet 
against  the  cold  of  a  French  winter.  Ouk  had 
no  ideas  as  to  the  rigours  of  a  French  winter, 
but  the  heavy  shoes  were  exceedingly  painful. 
In  exchange  for  his  gay  sarong,  they  gave  him 
a  thick,  ill  fitting  suit  of  khaki  flannel,  in  which 
he  smothered,  but  this,  they  likewise  explained 
to  him,  would  do  much  to  protect  him  from 
the  inclemency  of  French  weather.  Thus 
wound  up  and  bound  up,  and  suffering 
mightily  in  the  garb  of  European  civilization, 
Ouk  gave  himself  up  to  learn  how  to  protect 
it.  The  alternative  to  this  decision,  being  as 
we  have  said,  an  alternative  that  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  face. 

Three  months  of  training  being  accom 
plished,  Ouk  and  his  companions  were  by  that 
time  fitted  to  go  forth  for  the  protection  of 
great  ideals.  They  were  the  humble  defenders 
of  these  ideals,  and  from  time  to  time  the  news 
papers  spoke  in  glowing  terms,  of  their  senti- 
[108] 


CIVILIZATION 


mental,  clamorous  wish  to  defend  them.  Even 
in  these  remote,  unknown  regions,  somewhere 
between  the  Equator  and  ten  degrees  North 
latitude,  volunteers  were  pressing  forward  to 
uphold  the  high  traditions  of  their  masters. 
Ouk  and  his  companions  knew  nothing  of  these 
sonoT-  *is,  ringing  phrases  in  the  papers.  They 
knew  only  of  the  alternative,  the  jungle.  Time 
came  and  the  day  came  when  they  were  all 
ushered  forth  from  their  training  camp,  packed 
into  a  big  junk,  and  released  into  the  stormy 
tossings  of  the  harbour,  there  to  await  the  ar 
rival  of  the  French  Mail,  that  was  to  convey 
them  to  Europe.  The  sun  beat  down  hot  upon 
them,  in  their  unaccustomed  shoes  and  khaki, 
the  harbour  waves  tossed  violently,  and  the 
French  Mail  was  late.  Eventually  it  arrived, 
however,  and  they  all  scrambled  aboard,  pass 
ing  along  a  narrow  gangplank  from  which  four 
of  them  slipped  and  were  drowned  in  the  sea. 
But  four  out  of  five  hundred  was  a  small  mat 
ter,  quite  insignificant. 

When  the  French  Mail  arrived  at  Saigon, 

Ouk  was  able  to  replenish  his  supply  of  betel 

nut  and  sirra  leaves,  buying  them  from  coolies 

in  bobbing  sampans,  which  sampans  had  been 

[109] 


CIVILIZATION 


allowed  to  tie  themselves  to  the  other  side  of 
the  steamer.  At  Singapore  also  he  bought 
himself  more  betel  nut  and  sirra  leaves,  but 
after  leaving  Singapore  he  was  unable  to  re 
plenish  his  stock,  and  consequently  suffered. 
Every  one  with  him,  in  that  great  company  of 
volunteers,  also  suffered.  It  was  an  unexpected 
deprivation.  The  ship  ploughed  along,  how 
ever,  the  officers  taking  small  notice  of  Ouk  and 
his  kind — indeed,  they  only  referred  to  Ouk 
by  number,  for  no  one  of  those  in  authority 
could  possibly  remember  the  outlandish  names 
of  these  heathen.  Nor  did  their  names  greatly 
matter. 

Time  passed,  the  long  voyage  was  over,  and 
Ouk  landed  at  Marseilles.  In  course  of  time 
he  found  himself  placed  in  a  small  town  in  one 
of  the  provinces,  the  very  town  from  which 
Maubert  had  been  released  to  go  to  the  Front. 
Thus  it  happened  that  there  were  as  many 
men  in  that  town  as  had  been  taken  away  from 
it,  only  the  colour  and  the  race  of  the  men  had 
changed.  The  nationality  of  all  of  them,  how 
ever,  was  the  same — they  were  all  subjects  of 
the  mighty  French  Empire  or  Democracy, 
and  in  France  race  prejudice  is  practically  nil. 
[110] 


CIVILIZATION 


Therefore  Ouk,  who  worked  in  a  munition  fac 
tory,  found  himself  regarded  with  curiosity 
and  with  interest,  though  not  with  prejudice. 
Thus  it  happened  that  Madame  Maubert 
found  herself  gazing  at  Ouk  one  evening, 
from  behind  the  safe  security  of  her  zinc 
covered  bar.  Curiosity  and  interest  were  in 
her  soul,  but  no  particular  sense  of  racial  su 
periority.  Ouk  and  some  companions,  speak 
ing  together  in  heathen  jargon,  were  seated 
comfortably  at  one  of  the  little  yellow  tables 
of  the  cafe,  learning  to  drink  wine  in  place  of 
the  betel  nut  of  which  they  had  been  deprived. 
All  through  the  day  they  worked  in  one  of  the 
big  factories,  but  in  the  evenings  they  were 
free,  and  able  to  mix  with  civilization  and  be 
come  acquainted  with  it.  And  they  became 
acquainted  with  it  in  the  bar  of  Madame  Mau 
bert,  who  served  them  with  yellow  wine,  and 
who  watched,  from  her  safe  place  behind  the 
zinc  covered  counter,  the  effect  of  yellow  wine 
upon  yellow  bodies  which  presumably  con 
tained  yellow  souls — if  any. 

All  this  made  its  impression  upon  Ouk.  All 
this  enforced  labour  and  civilization  and  unac 
customed  wine.  So  it  happened  that  one  eve- 

[mi 


CIVILIZATION 


ning  Ouk  remained  alone  in  the  bar  after  his 
companions  had  gone,  and  he  came  close  up  to 
the  zinc  covered  counter  behind  which  was 
seated  Madame  Maubert,  and  he  regarded  her 
steadily.  She  too,  regarded  him  steadily,  and 
beheld  in  his  slim,  upright  figure  something 
which  attracted  her.  And  Ouk  beheld  in 
Madame  Maubert  something  which  attracted 
him.  Seated  upon  her  high  stool  on  the  other 
side  of  the  counter,  she  towered  above  him,  but 
he  felt  no  awe  of  her,  no  sense  of  her  superi 
ority.  True,  she  looked  somewhat  older  than 
the  girls  in  his  village,  but  on  the  other  hand, 
she  had  a  pink  and  white  skin,  and  Ouk  had1 
not  yet  come  in  contact  with  a  pink  and  white 
skin.  Nor  had  Madame  Maubert  ever  seen, 
close  to,  the  shining,  beautiful  skin  of  a  young 
Oriental.  After  all,  were  they  not  both  sub 
jects  of  the  same  great  nation,  were  they  not 
both  living  and  sacrificing  themselves  for  the 
preservation  of  the  same  ideals?  Madame 
Maubert  had  given  up  her  man.  Ouk  had 
given  up — heaven  knows  what — the  jungle! 
Anyway,  such  being  the  effect  of  yellow  wine 
upon  Ouk,  and  such  being  the  effect  of  Ouk 
on  Madame  Maubert,  they  both  leaned  their 


CIVILIZATION 


elbows  upon  opposite  sides  of  the  zinc  counter 
that  evening  and  looked  at  each  other.  For  a 
whole  year  Madame  Maubert's  husband  had 
been  away  from  her,  and  for  nearly  a  whole 
year  Ouk  had  been  away  from  the  women  of 
his  kind,  and  suddenly  they  realised,  gazing  at 
each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the  zinc 
covered  bar,  that  Civilization  claimed  them. 
Each  had  a  duty  to  perform  towards  its  fur 
therance  and  enhancement. 


IV 

Let  us  now  go  back  to  Maubert,  standing 
for  long  months  within  his  straw  covered  hut, 
or  standing  in  the  roadway  in  front  of  it,  de 
manding  passports.  Every  day,  for  many 
months  past,  he  remembered  his  misspent  per 
mission  and  cursed  the  way  he  had  passed  it. 
Passed  it  in  so  futile  a  manner.  Things  might 
have  been  so  different.  His  companions  often 
chaffed  him  about  it,  chaffed  him  rudely.  For 
he  had  never  seen  fit  to  tell  them  that  he  had 
not  gone  down  to  his  home  in  the  provinces, 
as  they  thought  he  had,  but  had  been  ensnared 
by  some  woman  in  Paris  who  had  pulled  him 
[113] 


CIVILIZATION 


away  from  a  passing  tram  on  the  rue  de  la 
Gaiete.  One  day  the  vaguemestre  brought 
him  a  letter.  He  was  very  dizzy  when  he  read 
it.  Everything  swam  round.  Rage  and  re 
lief  combated  together  in  his  limited  brain. 
Rage  and  relief — rage  and  relief!  He  could 
take  his  letter  to  the  authorities  and  demand 
his  release — or — — 

For  now  he  had  five  children,  had  Maubert. 
No  one  would  question  it.  In  his  hand  lay  the 
letter  of  his  wife.  Five  children.  The  fifth 
just  born.  That  meant  release  from  the  serv 
ice  of  his  country.  She  said  she  was  sorry. 
That  she  had  done  it  for  him.  He  would  un 
derstand.  But  Maubert  did  not  understand. 
He  remembered  his  misspent  permission,  and 
the  thought  of  it  nauseated  him.  She,  too. 
The  thought  of  it  nauseated  him.  Certainly 
he  did  not  understand. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  authorities  had  on 
their  books  the  date  of  his  permission.  He 
looked  again  at  the  letter  of  his  wife.  The 
dates  coincided  admirably.  He  had  but  to  go 
to  his  superior  officer  and  show  him  the  let 
ter  of  his  wife,  announcing  the  birth  of  their1 
fifth  child.  Then  he  would  be  free.  Free 
[114] 


CIVILIZATION 


from  the  service  of  his  country,  the  hated  serv 
ice,  the  examining  of  passports  presented  by 
a  rushing  General,  by  a  rushing  ambulance, 
by  some  rushing  motor  that  was  perhaps  car 
rying  a  spy. 

He  so  hated  it  all.  But  now,  more  than 
anything  else,  he  hated  his  wife.  He  would 
accept  his  release  and  go  home  and  kill  her. 
He  wouldn't  be  free  any  more  if  he  did  that, 
however.  He  argued  it  out  with  himself.  So 
he  couldn't  kill  her.  He  must  accept  it.  If 
he  accepted  his  release  from  the  service  of  his 
country,  he  must  accept  it  on  her  terms.  He 
spent  a  long  day  in  the  rain  and  the  wind, 
thinking  it  out.  But  he  thought  it  out  at  last. 
He  would  accept  her  terms,  obtain  his  release, 
go  home  and  see — and  then  decide. 

He  told  his  Colonel  about  it,  and  his  Colonel 
chaffed  him,  and  looked  over  some  papers,  and 
finally  set  in  motion  the  mechanism  by  which 
he  was  finally  set  free  from  the  service  of  his 
country.  It  took  some  weeks  before  this  was 
accomplished,  but  it  was  finally  done.  And 
when  he  arrived  in  Paris,  coming  down  from 
his  post  in  the  First  Zone  of  the  Armies,  he 
was  painfully  sober.  No  more  wine  that  day 
[115] 


CIVILIZATION 


for  him.  No  more  wine,  bought  at  the  es- 
taminet  before  he  left,  or  bought  during  the 
long  journey  down  to  Paris.  No  more  zig 
zagging  up  the  rue  de  la  Gaiete.  He  found 
the  Metro  entrance  at  the  exit  of  the  Gare 
Montparnasse,  took  the  train,  and  arrived, 
shortly  afterwards,  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  very 
sober.  Very  sober  and  angry. 

And  when  he  reached  his  home  in  the  prov 
inces,  he  was  still  sober  and  still  angry.  Nor 
did  he  know  what  he  should  do.  He  did  not 
know  whether  he  should  kill  his  wife  or  not. 
If  he  did,  he  must  go  back  to  the  Front.  And 
he  hated  the  Front.  He  hated  his  duties,  sen 
try  duty,  in  the  First  Zone  of  the  Armies.  He 
could  not  report  to  his  Colonel  again,  and  say, 
"Give  me  back  my  sentry  box — let  me  serve 
my  country — that  fifth  child  is  not  mine!"  He 
was  in  a  tight  place,  surely.  But  at  his  home, 
his  mood  changed,  his  wife  was  very  gentle. 
She  said  she  had  been  wrong. 

"Ouk  is  dead,"  she  said.  "All  those  poor 
little  men  who  come  from  the  Tropics  die  very 
soon  in  our  cold,  damp  weather.  They  cannot 
stand  it.  The  khaki  flannels  we  give  them  do 
not  warm  them.  There  is  not  much  wool  in 
[116] 


CIVILIZATION 


them.  The  cold  penetrates  into  their  bones. 
They  catch  cold  and  die,  all  of  them,  sooner  or 
later.  It  is  an  extravagance,  importing 
them." 

Therefore  he  was  mollified.  "For  your 
sake,"  said  his  wife.  Maubert  looked  down  at 
the  fifth  child  lying  in  its  cradle.  The  child 
that  brought  him  release  from  the  service  of 
his  country — release  from  sentry  duty,  from 
looking  at  hastily  shoved  out,  unintelligible 
passports. 

"For  your  sake,"  repeated  his  wife,  slipping 
her  arm  through  his  arm.  "Very  well,"  said 
Maubert  stiffly.  All  the  same,  he  thought  to 
himself,  the  child  certainly  looks  like  a  Chi 
nese. 


[117] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


MISUNDERSTANDING 

THEY  say  out  here,  that  one  can  never  un 
derstand  the  native  mind  and  its  workings.  So 
primitive  are  they,  these  quiet,  gentle,  brown- 
skinned  men  and  women,  crouching  over  their 
compound  fires  in  the  evening,  lazily  driving 
the  lumbering  buffaloes  in  the  rice  fields,  liv 
ing  their  facile  life,  here  on  the  edge  of  the  jun 
gle.  So  primitive  are  they,  these  gentle,  sim 
ple  forest  people. 

In  the  towns — oh,  but  they  are  not  made 
for  the  towns,  they  are  so  strangely  out  of 
place  in  the  towns  which  the  foreigner  has  con 
trived  for  himself  on  the  borders  of  their 
brown,  sluggish  rivers,  towns  which  he  has  cre 
ated  by  pushing  backward  for  a  little  the  jun 
gle,  while  he  builds  his  pink  and  yellow  bunga 
lows  beneath  the  palm  trees,  and  spaces  them 
between  the  banana  trees,  along  straight 
tracks  which  he  calls  roads.  Wide,  red  roads, 
which  the  natives  have  made  under  his  direc- 
[121] 


CIVILIZATION 


tion,  and  deep,  cool  bungalows,  which  the  na 
tives  have  made  under  his  direction.  Alto 
gether,  they  are  his  towns,  the  foreigners' 
towns,  and  he  has  constructed  them  so  that  they 
may  remind  him  of  his  home,  ten  thousand 
miles  across  the  world. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  try  to  fancy  the  na 
tives  in  these  foreign  towns.  They  mean  noth 
ing  to  him,  and  are  far  distant  from  his  ten 
dencies  and  desires.  His  own  villages  are  dif 
ferent — thatched  huts,  erected  on  bamboo 
piles,  roofed  with  palm  leaves.  They  cluster 
close  together  along  the  winding  brown  rivers, 
on  the  edge  of  the  jungle.  Mounted  very 
high  on  their  stilts  of  bamboo,  crowding  each 
other  very  close  together,  compound  touching 
compound  for  the  sake  of  companionship  and 
safety.  Safety  from  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
forests,  those  that  cry  by  night,  and  howl  and 
prowl  and  kill ;  safety  from  the  serpents,  whose 
sting  is  death,  shelter,  protection,  from  all  the 
dark,  lurking  dangers  of  the  jungle — the  evil, 
mighty  forests,  at  whose  edge,  between  it  and 
the  winding  yellow  rivers,  they  build  them 
selves  their  homes.  Yes,  but  life  is  very  easy 
here,  just  the  same.  A  little  stirring  of  the 
[122] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


rich  earth  in  the  clearings,  and  food  springs 
forth.  A  little  paddling  up  the  stream  or 
down,  in  a  pirogue  or  a  sampan,  a  net  strung 
across  the  sluggish  waters,  and  there  is  food 
again.  A  little  wading  in  shallow,  sunlit 
pools,  a  swift  strike  with  a  trident,  and  a  fish; 
is  caught.  And  fruit  hangs  heavy  from  the 
trees.  Life  is  very  easy  in  these  countries. 
And  with  the  coming  of  the  sudden  sunset  of 
the  Tropics,  the  evening  fires  are  lighted  in  the 
compounds  and  there  is  gathering  together, 
with  song  and  laughter,  rest  and  ease.  So  as 
life  is  very  facile  in  the  jungle,  love  of  money 
is  unknown.  Why  money — what  can  it  mean? 
Why  toil  for  something  which  one  has  no  use 
for,  cannot  spend?  Just  enough,  perhaps,  to 
bargain  with  the  white  man  for  some  simple 
need — to  buy  a  water  buffalo,  maybe,  for 
ploughing  in  the  rice  fields.  No  more  than 
that — it's  not  needed.  And  the  very  little 
coins,  the  very,  very  little  coins,  two  dozen  of 
them  making  up  the  white  man's  penny,  just 
enough  of  these  left  over  to  stick  upon  the  lips 
of  Buddha,  at  the  corners,  with  a  little  gum. 
Thus  a  prayer  to  Buddha,  and  the  offering  of 
a  little  coin,  stuck  with  resin  to  the  god's  lips, 
[123] 


CIVILIZATION 


as  an  offering.  That  is  all.  Life  is  very  sim 
ple,  living  in  one's  skin. 

I  have  said  all  this  so  that  you  might  under 
stand.  Only,  remember,  no  one  understands, 
quite,  the  workings  of  the  savage  mind.  And 
these  of  whom  I  write  are  gentle  savages,  and 
their  way  of  life  is  simple,  primitive  and  crude. 
Only,  upon  contact  with  the  white  man,  some 
of  this  has  been  obliged  to  wear  off  a  little. 
They  have  had  to  become  adaptive,  to  assume 
a  little  polish,  as  it  were.  But  at  heart,  after 
these  many  years  of  contact,  they  are  still  sim 
ple.  They  are  mindless,  gentle,  squatting 
bare  backed  in  the  shade,  chewing,  spitting, 
betel  nut.  Chewing  as  the  ox  chews,  thinking 
as  the  ox  thinks.  Gentle  brown  men  and 
women,  touching  the  edge  of  the  most  refined 
civilization  of  the  western  world. 

The  tale  jerks  here — why  shouldn't  it?  The 
Lieutenant  told  me  this  bit  of  it  himself — he 
lives  in  the  foreigners'  town,  and  keeps  order 
there.  There  was  a  revolt  last  year.  But 
that  is  too  dignified  a  word,  it  assumes  too 
much,  it  assumes  something  that  there  never 
was.  For  revolt  signifies  organisation,  and 
there  wasn't  any.  It  signifies  a  general  un- 
[124] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


derstanding,  and  there  wasn't  any.  It  signi 
fies  great  numbers  involved,  and  there  were 
no  great  numbers.  How  could  there  have 
been  any  of  these  things,  said  the  Lieutenant, 
among  a  scattered  people,  scattered  through 
the  jungle,  on  the  edges  of  the  warm,  mighty 
forests,  at  the  headwaters  of  the  great  wind 
ing  rivers  which  penetrate  inland  for  a  thou 
sand  miles.  No,  it  was  in  no  sense  a  revolt, 
which  is  too  strong  a  word.  They  had  no  or 
ganisation,  they  could  not  communicate  with 
each  other,  had  they  wished.  Distances  were 
great,  and  they  could  not  read  or  write.  They 
had  never  been  molested — never  schooled.  It 
was  better  so.  Education  is  no  good  to  a 
squatter  in  the  shade.  No,  it  was  rather  an 
uprising  of  a  handful  of  them  in  the  town  of 
the  white  man,  the  town  of  red  earth  streets, 
with  pink  and  yellow  bungalows,  cool  and  shel 
tered  under  spreading  palms.  The  town  where 
many  foreigners  lived,  who  walked  about  list 
lessly  in  their  white  linen  clothes,  ghastly  pale, 
with  dark  rings  beneath  their  eyes,  who  stifled 
in  the  heat  and  thought  of  Home,  ten  thousand 
miles  away.  It  all  happened  suddenly,  no 
one  knows  how  or  why.  But  one  morning, 
[125] 


CIVILIZATION 


just  after  the  sun  rose  in  his  red,  burning 
splendour,  there  crept  into  the  town  a  few  hun 
dred  men.  They  came  in  by  this  red  street, 
with  the  statue  of  the  Bishop  at  the  top — the 
bronze  statue  of  the  Bishop  who  had  lived  arid 
worked  and  died  here  years  ago.  They  came 
by  the  red  street  leading  past  the  bazaar,  the 
model  market,  fashioned,  with  improvements, 
like  the  one  at  home.  They  came  by  the  red 
street  leading  past  the  Botanical  Garden,  the 
gardens  where  at  the  close  of  scorching  days 
the  women  of  the  white  man,  ghastly  white, 
used  to  drive  before  sunset,  to  breathe  a  little 
after  the  stifling  day.  They  came  along  the 
quais,  where  the  white  man's  ships  found  har 
bour.  Altogether,  creeping  in  on  many  roads, 
coming  in  their  fours  and  fives,  they  made 
about  three  hundred.  And  they  were  in  re 
volt,  if  you  please,  against  the  representatives 
of  the  most  refined  civilization  of  the  western 
world!  Just  three  hundred,  no  more.  Not  a 
ripple  of  it,  apparently,  spread  backwards  to 
the  jungle,  to  the  millions  inland,  in  the  for 
ests. 

What  happened?    Oh,  it  was  all  over  in  an 
hour!     The  Lieutenant  heard  them  coming — 
[126] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


his  orderly  ran  in  with  the  word — and  he  was 
out  in  an  instant  with  eight  men.  Eight  sol 
diers  armed  with  rifles.  It  was  quite  amusing. 
And  opposed  to  them,  that  mob,  in  their 
peaked  hats,  in  their  loin  cloths  or  their 
sarongs,  bare  to  waist  as  usual.  Poor  fools! 
Fancy — not  a  gun  among  them!  They 
thought  they  were  invisible!  The  geomancer 
had  told  them  that,  and  they  believed  him. 
Carried  at  their  head  a  flag,  some  outlandish, 
homemade  thing,  with  unknown  characters 
upon  it.  Well,  it  was  all  over  in  a  moment — 
those  eight  men  armed  with  guns  saw  to  that. 
Short  work — thirty  wounded,  fourteen  killed. 
The  rest  scattered,  but  before  the  day  was  out 
they  had  them — had  them  in  two  hours,  for  a 
fact.  All  disarmed,  and  the  Lieutenant  had 
their  weapons.  Come  to  see  them  at  his 
bungalow,  if  we'd  time?  Interesting  lot  of 
trophies,  most  unique  collection.  Quite  un 
equalled.  Homemade  spears,  forged  and 
hammered,  stuck  on  bamboo  poles.  Home 
made  swords,  good  blades,  too,  for  all  their 
crudeness.  Must  have  taken  months  to  make 
them,  fashioned  slyly,  on  the  quiet.  Killing 
weapons,  meant  to  kill.  Swords  like  the  Cru- 
[127] 


CIVILIZATION 


saders,  only  cased  in  bamboo  scabbards. 
Funny  lot — come  to  see  them  if  we'd  time. 
Nothing  like  it,  a  unique  collection.  And  the 
flag — red  cotton  flag,  all  blood  stained,  with 
some  device  in  corner,  just  barbaric.  Poor 
fools!  Flag  pathetic?  Pathetic?  Heavens, 
no! 

Well,  they  stamped  it  out  very  thoroughly, 
at  four  o'clock  that  afternoon.  It  finished  at 
the  race  course,  for  there  is  always  a  race  course 
where  the  white  man  rules.  Word  went  round, 
as  it  always  goes  round  in  times  like  this,  and 
just  before  sunset  the  whole  native  population 
was  out  to  see  the  white  man's  method.  No 
one  hindered  them  or  feared  them,  for  appar- 
parently  they  had  no  hand  in  this  uprising, 
and  moreover,  were  unarmed.  They  were  full 
of  curiosity  to  see  what  they  should  see.  Si 
lently  they  trooped  out  in  hundreds  through 
the  shady,  palm  bordered,  red  streets  of  the 
town,  padding  barefoot  past  the  sheltered 
bungalows,  past  the  bronze  statue  of  the 
Bishop,  out  to  the  edge  of  the  town.  All  the 
Tropics  was  there,  moving  silently,  flowing 
gently,  in  their  hundreds,  to  the  race  course. 
Dark  skins,  yellow  skins,  eyes  straight,  eyes 
[128] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


slanting,  black  hair  cut  short,  or  worn  in  pig 
tails,  or  in  top  knots,  or  in  chignons;  bare 
bodies,  bare  legs,  or  legs  clothed  in  brilliant 
sarongs  or  in  flapping  pyjamas — all  the  cos 
tumes  of  all  the  countries  bordering  the  Seven 
Seas  streamed  outward  from  the  town,  very 
silent.  And  as  the  sun  blazed  low  to  his  setting^ 
all  the  Tropics  waited  to  see  what  the  white 
man  would  do. 

They  did  it  very  cleverly,  the  white  men. 
For  they  called  upon  the  native  troops  to  do  it 
for  them,  to  see  if  they  were  loyal.  There  were 
thirty-four  prisoners  all  told,  and  they  walked 
along  with  hands  bound  behind  them,  looking 
very  stupid.  Even  as  they  walked  along,  at 
that  moment  the  wife  of  the  Lieutenant  was 
showing  their  crude  spears  to  friends — she 
gave  tea  to  her  friends  in  the  pink  bungalow, 
and  exhibited  the  captured  weapons,  but  the 
Lieutenant  was  not  there — he  was  at  the  race 
course,  supervising. 

They  led  them  forward  in  groups  of  six,  and, 
they  were  faced  by  six  native  soldiers  armed 
with  rifles.  And  just  behind  the  six  native 
soldiers  stood  six  soldiers  of  the  white  troops, 
also  with  rifles.  And  when  the  word  was  given 
[129] 


CIVILIZATION 


to  fire,  if  the  native  troops  had  not  fired  upon 
their  brothers,  the  white  troops  would  have 
fired  upon  both.  It  was  cleverly  managed,  and 
very  well  arranged.  But  there  was  no  hitch. 
Six  times  the  native  troops  fired  upon  batches 
of  naked,  kneeling  men,  and  six  times  the 
white  soldiers  stood  behind  them  with  raised 
rifles,  in  case  of  hesitation.  Only  the  crack  of 
the  rifles  broke  the  stillness.  The  dense  crowd 
of  natives  gathered  close,  standing  by  in 
silence.  Giving  no  sign,  they  watched  the  ret 
ribution  of  the  white  man.  The  sun  beat 
down  upon  them,  in  their  wide  hats,  their  semi- 
nakedness,  attired  in  their  sombre  or  brilliant 
cotton  skirts.  When  it  was  over,  they  dis 
persed  as  quietly  as  they  had  gathered.  The 
silent  crowds  walked  back  from  the  race  course, 
the  pleasure  ground  of  the  dominant  race,  and 
drifted  along  the  red  streets  of  the  town,  back 
again  to  the  holes  and  burrows  from  which 
they  had  come. 

II 

A  year  later,  nearly.   The  Lieutenant  who 
had  quelled  the  uprising,  with  a  handful  of  men 
armed  with  rifles  of  the  latest  device,  as  against 
[130] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


three  hundred  natives  armed  with  spears,  had 
been  decorated  and  was  very  proud.  He  also 
continued  to  exhibit  his  unique  collection  of 
arms  to  all  comers,  when  the  mail  boats  came 
in.  Nor  did  he  see  their  pathos.  And  in  the 
jungles  of  the  interior,  where  most  of  them 
lived,  the  natives  never  knew  of  the  existence 
of  the  little  red  flag,  and  would  not  have  un 
derstood  if  they  had  been  told.  Why?  The 
white  men  were  kind  and  considerate.  Easy 
and  indulgent  masters  who  in  no  wise  inter 
fered  with  life  as  lived  in  the  jungle.  But  with 
the  native  troops  who  had  fired  upon  their 
brothers  it  was  different. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  small  coastwise 
steamer,  going  her  usual  cruise  among  the  is 
lands  and  along  the  coast  of  one  of  the  Seven 
Seas,  carried  unusual  freight.  Being  a  very 
little  boat,  with  a  light  cargo,  she  was  some 
times  severely  buffeted  by  the  northeast  mon 
soon,  which  was  blowing  at  that  time  of  the 
year.  On  these  days,  when  the  monsoon  was 
strongest,  the  few  passengers  she  carried  were 
not  comfortable.  On  other  days,  when  she 
found  calm  weather  among  the  islands,  it  was 
very  pleasant.  She  dropped  anchor  from  time 
[131] 


CIVILIZATION 


to  time  in  little  bays  bordered  with  cocoanut 
tree,  and  from  the  bays  emerged  sampans  with 
vivid  painted  eyes  on  their  prows,  seeking  out 
the  steamer  and  the  bales  of  rice  she  carried,  or 
the  mails.  The  mails,  consisting  of  half  a 
dozen  letters  for  each  port,  were  tied  up  in  big 
canvas  sacks,  sealed  with  big  government  seals, 
and  the  white  men  who  lived  on  these  remote, 
desert  islands,  would  come  themselves  to  fetch 
them.  They  paddled  themselves  to  the  steamer 
in  pirogues  or  in  sampans,  white  faced,  anaemic, 
apathetic,  devoid  of  vitality.  The  great,  over 
whelming  heat  of  the  Tropics,  the  isolation  of 
life,  in  unknown  islands  in  the  southern  seas, 
makes  one  like  that.  Yet  they  were  '  'making 
money"  on  their  island  plantations  of  rubber 
or  cocoanut,  or  expecting  to  make  it.  It  takes 
seven  years  of  isolation  in  the  tropic  seas,  after 
one  has  started  a  plantation — and  even  then, 

many  things  may  happen 

So  the  little  steamer  stopped  here  and  there, 
at  little,  unknown  bays,  at  places  not  men 
tioned  in  the  guide  books,  and  from  the  beauti 
ful,  desolate  islands  came  out  sampans  and 
junks,  with  the  lonely  figure  of  a  white  man 
sitting  despondent  among  the  naked  rowers, 
[132] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


eager  to  get  his  letters  from  home.  It  was  his 
only  eagerness,  but  very  dull  and  listless  at 
that.  At  night,  the  islands  loomed  large  and 
mysterious  in  the  darkness,  while  now  and 
then  a  single  ray  of  light  from  some  light 
house,  gleaming  from  some  lost,  mysterious 
island  of  the  southern  seas,  beamed  with  a 
curious  constancy.  There  were  dangerous 
rocks,  sunken  reefs.  And  always  the  soft 
wind  blew,  the  soft,  enervating  wind  of  the 
Tropics. 

On  the  fore  part  of  the  little  steamer,  that 
wound  its  way  with  infinite  care,  slowly, 
among  the  sunken  rocks,  the  shoals  and  sand 
bars,  sat  a  company  of  fifty  men.  Natives,  such 
as  you  might  see  back  there  in  the  jungle,  or 
harnessed  to  the  needs  of  civilization,  bearing 
the  white  man  in  rickshaws  along  the  red 
streets  of  the  little  town.  These,  however,  were 
native  troops — the  rickshaw  runner  used  in 
another  way.  They  were  handcuffed  together, 
sitting  in  pairs  on  the  main  deck.  In  the  soft, 
moist  wind,  they  eat  rice  together,  with  their 
free  hands,  out  of  the  same  bowl.  Very  dirty 
little  prisoners,  clad  in  khaki,  disarmed, 
chained  together  in  pairs.  A  canvas  was 
[133] 


CIVILIZATION 


stretched  over  that  part  of  the  deck,  which 
sheltered  them  from  the  glaring  sun,  and 
prevented  the  odour  of  them  from  rising  to  the 
bridge,  a  little  way  above,  where  stood  the 
Captain  in  yellow  crepe  pyjamas.  For  they 
were  dirty,  handcuffed  together  like  that,  un- 
exercised,  unwashed.  They  would  be  put  ashore 
in  three  days,  however,  to  work  on  the  roads, 
government  roads.  Notoriously  good  roads, 
the  colony  has  too.  Their  offense?  Grave 
enough.  With  the  European  world  at  war, 
this  colony,  like  those  of  all  the  other  nations, 
had  called  upon  its  native  troops.  The  native 
troops  had  been  loyal,  had  responded,  had 
volunteered  to  go  when  told  they  must.  Proof 
of  that?  Forty  thousand  of  them  at  the  mo 
ment  helping  in  this  devastating  war.  It  was 

a  good  record — it  spoke  well 

Only  this  handful  had  refused.  Refused  ab 
solutely,  flagrantly  defiant.  Just  this  little 
group,  out  of  all  the  thousands.  So  they  were 
being  sent  off  somewhere,  handcuffed,  to  make 
roads.  Prisoners  for  three  years  to  make  roads, 
useless  roads  that  led  nowhere.  Good  roads, 
excellent,  for  traffic  that  never  was.  Some 
said  they  were  the  soldiers  who  had  been  forced 
[134] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


to  kill  their  brothers  a  while  back — after  that 
paltry  revolution.  One  didn't  know.  They 
are  stupid,  these  natives.  Chewing  betel  nut 
all  day,  their  mouths  a  red,  bloody  gash  across 
their  faces. 

The  ship  stopped  finally  in  some  bay.  Then 
a  big,  unwieldy  junk  put  out  from  shore,  and 
tacked  back  and  forth,  for  two  hours,  against 
a  strong  head  wind,  coming  to  rest  finally 
against  the  steamer's  side.  Two  big  iron  rods 
were  put  out,  with  a  padlock  at  each  end,  and 
places  for  twenty-five  feet  to  be  locked  in. 
Then  came  European  guards,  with  rifles,  and 
revolvers  in  big  leather  cases  hanging  at  their 
sides.  The  prisoners  were  very  docile,  but  it 
was  well  to  take  precautions.  When  all  was 
ready,  the  prisoners  filed  out  slowly  and  with 
difficulty,  because  of  their  chains,  and  de 
scended  the  gangway  ladder  to  the  uncouth 
junk,  with  its  painted,  staring  eyes.  After 
that,  the  junk  slowly  detached  itself  from  the 
ship,  unrolled  its  ragged  matting  sails,  and 
made  towards  the  mainland  with  the  docile 
cargo. 

The  third  passenger  leaned  over  the  rail. 
A  sweet  breeze  blew  in  from  the  island,  a 
[135] 


CIVILIZATION 


scented  breeze,  laden  with  the  heavy  scents  of 
the  Tropics.  For  three  years,  he  said,  they 
would  labour  at  the  futile  roads,  the  roads 
that  led  nowhere.  Really,  commented  the  third 
passenger,  it  was  impossible  to  understand  the 
Oriental  mind.  They  had  chosen  this— this 
isolation,  this  cutting  off  from  home  and 
friends,  rather  then  go  to  Europe  to  serve  the 
race  that  had  treated  them  so  well.  Afraid? 
Oh,  no — too  ignorant  to  be  afraid.  Brave 
enough  when  it  came  to  that — just  obstinate. 
Just  refused  to  serve,  to  do  as  they  were  told. 
Refused  to  serve,  to  fight  for  the  race  that  had 
treated  them  so  well,  by  and  large,  take  it  all 
in  all.  That  had  built  them  towns  and  har 
bours,  brought  in  ships  and  trade — had  done 
everything,  according  to  best  western  stand 
ards.  It  was  incomprehensible — truly  it  was 
difficult  to  fathom  the  Oriental  mind!  The 
revolt  a  year  ago?  Oh,  nothing! 

The  big  junk  with  the  staring  eyes  carried 
them  off,  the  supine,  listless  prisoners,  hand 
cuffed  together,  foot-locked  to  an  iron  bar. 
They  must  build  roads  for  three  years.  Some 
where  at  the  back  of  those  slow  minds  was  a 
memory  of  the  race  course,  of  the  brothers 
[136] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 


they  had  slain.  Perhaps.  Who  knows.  But 
the  Occidental  mind  does  not  understand  the 
Oriental  mind,  and  it  was  good  to  be  rid  of 
them,  dirty  little  creatures,  who  smelled  so 
bad  under  the  awning  of  the  main  deck. 

The  anchor  chain  wound  in,  grating  link  on 
link.  The  soft,  sweet  wind  blew  outward  from 
the  cocoanut  trees,  from  the  scented  earth  of 
the  island.  The  third  passenger  watched  the 
junk  disappear  in  the  shadows  of  the  warm 
night,  then  he  went  below  to  get  another  drink. 


[137] 


PRISONERS 


VI 


PRISONERS 

MERCIER  was  writing  his  report  for  the  day. 
He  sat  at  a  rattan  table,  covered  with  a  disor 
derly  array  of  papers,  ledgers  and  note  books 
of  various  sorts,  and  from  time  to  time  made 
calculations  on  the  back  of  an  old  envelope. 
He  finally  finished  his  work,  and  pushing  back 
his  chair,  lighted  a  cigarette.  Unconsciously, 
he  measured  time  by  cigarettes.  One  cigarette, 
and  he  would  begin  work.  One  cigarette 
and  he  would  start  on  the  first  paragraph.  One 
cigarette,  to  rest  after  the  first  paragraph  be 
fore  beginning  the  second,  and  so  on.  It  was 
early  in  the  morning,  but  not  early  for  a  morn 
ing  in  the  Tropics.  Already  the  sun  was  creep 
ing  over  the  edge  of  the  deep,  palm-shaded 
verandah,  making  its  way  slowly  across  the 
wooden  floor,  till  it  would  reach  him,  at  his 
table,  in  a  very  short  time.  And  as  it  slowly 
crept  along,  a  brilliant  line  of  light,  so  the  heat 
[141] 


CIVILIZATION 


increased,  the  moist,  stagnant  heat,  from  which 
there  was  no  escape.  Outside  some  one  was 
pulling  the  punkah  rope,  and  the  great  leaves 
of  linen,  attached  to  heavy  teak  poles,  swayed 
back  and  forth  over  his  head,  stirring  slightly 
the  dense,  humid  atmosphere. 

Mercier  was  a  young  man,  not  over  thirty. 
He  had  come  out  to  the  East  three  years  ago, 
to  a  minor  official  post  in  the  Penal  Settlement, 
glad  of  a  soft  position,  of  easy  work,  of  an  op-, 
portunity  to  see  life  in  the  Tropics.  At  a  port 
on  the  mainland,  he  transshipped  from  the  liner 
to  a  little  steamer,  which  two  days  later 
dropped  anchor  in  the  blue  bay  of  his  future 
home.  At  that  time,  he  was  conscious  of  being 
intensely  pleased  at  the  picture  spread  before 
him.  Long  ago,  in  boyhood,  he  had  cherished 
romantic  dreams  of  the  Tropics,  of  islands  in 
southern  seas,  of  unknown,  mysterious  life  set 
in  gorgeous,  remote  setting.  It  had  all  ap 
pealed  to  his  fancy,  and  then  suddenly,  after 
many  long  years,  sordid,  difficult  years,  the  op 
portunity  had  come  for  the  realisation  of  his 
dreams.  He  had  obtained  a  post  as  minor  of 
ficial  in  one  of  the  colonies  of  his  country — 
over-seas  in  the  Far  East — and  he  gladly  gave 
[142] 


PRISONERS 


up  his  dull,  routine  life  at  home,  and  came  out 
to  the  adventures  that  awaited  him.  The  is 
land,  as  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  was  beauti 
ful.  Steep  hills,  rocky  and  mountainous,  rose 
precipitately  out  of  the  blue  waters,  and  the 
rising  sun  glinted  upon  the  topmost  peaks 
of  the  hills  and  threw  their  deep  shadows  down 
upon  the  bay,  and  upon  the  group  of  yellow 
stucco  bungalows  that  clustered  together  upon 
the  edge  of  the  water,  upon  the  narrow  strip 
of  land  lying  between  the  sea  and  the  sheer 
sides  of  the  backing  mountains.  The  bay  was 
a  crescent,  almost  closed,  and  a  coral  reef  ran 
in  an  encircling  sweep  from  the  headland  be 
yond,  and  the  translucent,  sparkling  waters  of 
the  harbour  seemed  beautiful  beyond  belief. 
His  heart  beat  wildly  when  for  the  first  time 
he  beheld  his  new  home — it  exceeded  in  beauty 
anything  that  he  had  ever  dreamed  of.  What 
mattered  it  whether  or  no  it  was  a  Penal  Set 
tlement  for  one  of  the  great,  outlying  colonies 
of  his  mother  country,  two  days'  sail  from  the 
nearest  port  on  the  mainland,  the  port  itself 
ten  thousand  miles  from  home.  It  was  beauti 
ful  to  look  upon — glorious  to  look  upon,  and 
it  was  glorious  to  think  that  the  next  few  years 
[143] 


CIVILIZATION 


of  his  life  would  be  spent  amidst  such  sur 
roundings.  The  captain  of  the  coasting  steamer 
told  him  it  would  be  lonely — he  laughed  at  the 
idea.  How  could  one  be  lonely  amidst  such 
beauty  as  that !  His  thirsty  soul  craved  beauty, 
and  here  it  was  before  him,  marvellous,  com 
plete,  the  island  a  gem  sparkling  in  the  sun 
light,  veiled  in  the  shadow  of  an  early  morning. 
Lying  somewhere,  all  this  beauty,  one  degree 
north  or  south  of  the  Equator! 

No,  assuredly,  he  would  not  be  lonely !  Were 
there  not  many  families  on  the  island,  the  of 
ficials  and  their  families,  a  good  ten  or  fifteen 
of  them?  Besides,  there  was  his  work.  He' 
knew  nothing  of  his  work,  of  his  duties.  But 
in  connection  with  the  prisoners,  of  course — 
and  there  were  fifteen  hundred  prisoners,  they 
told  him,  concentrated  on  those  few  square 
miles  of  island,  off  somewhere  in  the  Southern 
Seas,  a  few  miles  north  or  south  of  the  Equator. 
He  was  anxious  to  see  the  prisoners,  the  unruly 
ones  of  the  colony.  Strange  types  they  would 
appear  to  his  conventional,  sophisticated  eyes. 
He  saw  them  in  imagination — yellow  skins, 
brown  skins,  black  skins,  picturesque,  daring, 
desperate  perhaps.  The  anchor  splashed  over- 
[144] 


PRISONERS 


board  into  the  shallow  water,  and  the  smallj 
steamer  drifted  on  the  end  of  the  chain,  wait 
ing  for  a  boat  to  come  out  from  shore.  With 
the  cessation  of  the  steamer's  movement,  he 
felt  the  heat  radiate  round  him,  in  an  over 
powering  wave,  making  him  feel  rather  sick 
and  giddy.  Yet  it  was  only  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Before  the  boat  arrived  from  shore, 
the  sun  had  passed  over  the  highest  peak  of 
the  mountains  and  was  glaring  down  with  full 
power  upon  the  cluster  of  hidden  bungalows, 
the  edges  and  ends  of  which  bungalows  pro 
truded  a  little  from  the  shelter  of  vines  and 
palm  trees.  White  clad  men  came  down  to 
the  beach,  and  a  woman  or  two  appeared  on 
the  verandahs,  and  then  disappeared  back  into 
the  verandahs,  while  the  men  came  down  to  the 
water's  edge  alone.  The  rowboat  was  pulled 
ashore  by  strong  rowers,  dark  skinned,  brawny 
men,  and  as  the  boat  neared  the  beach,  other 
dark  skinned  brawny  men  took  a  carrying  chair 
and  splashed  out  to  meet  the  boat,  inviting  him 
by  gestures  to  step  into  the  chair  and  be  car 
ried  ashore.  He  forgot  the  heat  in  the  novelty 
of  this  new  sensation — being  carried  ashore 
in  a  chair,  with  the  clear,  transparent  water  be- 
[145] 


CIVILIZATION 


neath  him,  and  wavy  sands,,  shell  studded, 
over  which  the  bearers  walked  slowly,  with 
precision.  And  then  came  his  first  hours  on 
shore.  How  calmly  they  had  welcomed  him, 
those  white  faced,  pale  men,  with  the  deep  cir 
cles  beneath  their  eyes.  They  looked  at  him 
with  envy,  it  seems,  as  a  being  newly  come 
from  contact  with  civilization,  and  they  looked 
upon  him  with  pity,  as  a  being  who  had  de 
liberately  chosen  to  shut  himself  off  from  civili 
zation,  for  a  period  of  many  years.  He  was 
taking  the  place  of  one  who  was  going  home — ' 
and  the  man  was  in  a  desperate  hurry  to  get 
away.  He  looked  ill,  withal  he  was  so  fat, 
for  he  was  very  fat  and  flabby,  extraordinarily 
white,  with  circles  beneath  his  puffy  eyes 
blacker  and  more  marked  than  those  on  the 
other  faces.  The  departing  official  shook 
hands  hurriedly  with  Mercier,  and  kissed  his 
old  companions  good-bye  hurriedly  upon  both 
cheeks,  and  then  hastened  into  the  chair,  to 
get  to  the  rowboat,  to  get  to  the  steamer  as 
soon  as  possible.  The  other  officials  on  the 
beach  commented  volubly  on  his  good  fortune 
— ah,  but  he  had  the  chance!  What  chance! 
What  luck !  What  fortune !  They  themselves 
[146] 


PRISONERS 


had  no  luck,  they  must  remain  here  how  long, 
ah,  who  knew  how  long!  They  all  stood  there 
upon  the  beach  watching  the  departing  one 
until  he  reached  the  steamer,  drifting  idly  at 
the  length  of  her  anchor  chain. 

Then  they  remembered  Mercier  again,  and 
surrounded  him,  not  eagerly,  listlessly,  and 
asked  him  to  the  office  of  the  Administrator, 
to  have  a  cup  of  champagne.  A  cup  of  cham 
pagne,  at  a  little  after  six  in  the  morning.  As 
they  walked  slowly  up  the  beach,  Mercier 
spoke  of  the  beauty  of  the  place,  the  ex 
traordinary  beauty  of  the  island.  They  seemed 
not  to  heed  him.  They  smiled,  and  reminded 
him  that  he  was  a  newcomer,  and  that  such  was 
the  feeling  of  all  newcomers  and  that  it  would 
soon  pass.  And  in  a  body,  ten  of  them,  they 
conducted  Mercier  to  the  bureau  of  the  Ad 
ministrator,  a  tired,  middle  aged  men,  who 
shook  hands  without  cordiality,  and  ordered  a 
boy  to  bring  a  tray  with  a  bottle  and  glasses 
and  mouldy  biscuits,  and  they  all  sat  together 
and  drank  without  merriment.  It  was  dark  in 
the  Administrator's  office,  for  the  surround 
ing  verandah  was  very  wide  and  deep,  and  tall 
bamboos  grew  close  against  the  edges  of  the 
[147] 


CIVILIZATION 


railing,  and  a  little  way  behind  the  bamboos 
grew  banana  trees  and  travellers'  palms,  all 
reaching  high  into  the  air  and  making  a  thick 
defence  against  the  sunlight.  The  stone  floor 
had  been  freshly  sprinkled  with  water,  and  the 
ceiling  was  high,  made  of  dark  teak  wood,  and 
it  was  very  dark  inside,  and  damp  and  rather 
cool.  There  was  a  punkah  hanging  from  the 
ceiling,  but  it  stood  at  rest.  Its  movement  had 
come  to  make  the  Administrator  nervous.  He1 
was  very  nervous  and  restless,  turning  his  head 
from  side  to  side  in  quick,  sharp  jerks,  first 
over  one  shoulder  and  then  the  other,  and  now 
and  then  suddenly  bending  down  to  glance  un 
der  the  table.  Later  on,  some  one  explained 
to  Mercier  that  the  Administrator  had  a  pro 
found  fear  of  insects,  the  fierce,  crawling,  sting 
ing  things  that  lived  outside  under  the  bam 
boos,  and  that  crept  in  sometimes  across  the 
stone  paved  floor,  and  bit.  Only  last  week, 
one  of  the  paroled  convicts,  working  in  the 
settlement,  had  been  bitten  by  some  venomous 
evil  thing,  and  had  died  a  few  hours  later.  Such 
accidents  were  common — one  must  always  be 
on  guard.  Most  people  became  used  to  being 
on  guard,  but  with  the  Administrator,  the 
[148] 


PRISONERS 


thing  had  become  a  nightmare.  He  had  been 
out  too  long — his  nerves  were  tortured.  It  was 
the  heat,  of  course — the  stifling,  enervating 
heat.  Few  could  stand  it  for  very  long,  and 
the  authorities  back  home  must  have  forgotten 
to  relieve  the  old  man — he  was  such  a  good  ex 
ecutive,  perhaps  they  had  forgotten  on  purpose. 
The  sub-officials  were  changed  from  time  to 
time,  but  the  old  man  seemed  to  have  been 
forgotten.  He  could  not  stand  it  much  longer 
— that  was  obvious. 

Mercier  went  thoughtfully  to  the  bunga 
low  assigned  to  him,  installed  his  few  meagre 
possessions,  and  entered  without  zest  upon  his 
work.  Somehow,  the  keenness  had  been  taken 
out  of  him  by  that  hour's  conversation  in  the 
darkened  bureau  of  the  Chief.  The  weeks 
passed  slowly,  but  Mercier  never  regained  his 
enthusiasm.  The  physical  atmosphere  tookj 
all  initiative  away.  His  comrades  were  list 
less  beings,  always  tired,  dragging  slowly  to 
their  daily  rounds,  and  finishing  their  work 
early  in  the  morning  before  the  heat  became  in 
tolerable.  Then  for  hours  they  rested — retired 
to  their  bungalows  or  that  of  a  comrade,  and 
rested,  to  escape  the  intense  heat  which  never 
[149] 


CIVILIZATION 


varied,  winter  or  summer,  although  it  was 
a  farce  to  speak  of  the  seasons  as  winter  or^ 
summer,  except  in  memory  of  home.  Mercier 
soon  fell  in  with  their  ways.  He  drank  a  great 
deal,  beginning  very  early  in  the  morning,  and 
measured  time  by  cigarettes,  postponing  his 
duties,  such  that  claimed  him,  till  he  had  just 
finished  another  cigarette.  They  were  cheap 
and  bad,  but  there  was  a  solace  in  them,  and 
they  whiled  away  the  time.  The  only  joviality 
about  the  place  came  in  the  evenings,  after 
many  cigarettes,  which  made  him  nervous,  and 
after  very  many  little  glasses  of  brandy,  which 
unfitted  him  for  work  but  which  were  neces 
sary  to  stimulate  him  for  what  work  he  had  to 
do. 

Near  the  group  of  bungalows  belonging  to 
the  officials  and  to  the  prison  guards,  stood  the 
prison  building  itself,  a  large,  rambling,  one* 
storeyed  structure,  with  many  windows  fitted 
with  iron  bars.  Here  the  newcomers  were 
kept,  about  eight  hundred  of  them,  and  near 
by,  in  an  adjacent  compound,  were  quarters 
for  about  seven  hundred  prisoners  out  on  pa 
role,  by  reason  of  good  conduct.  The  confined 
prisoners  did  not  work,  being  merely  confined, 
[150] 


PRISONERS 


but  those  out  on  parole,  on  good  conduct,  and 
whose  terms  would  soon  come  to  an  end,  were 
trusted  to  work  about  the  island  in  various 
capacities.  They  made  the  roads — such  few 
as  there  were.  The  island  was  so  small  that 
many  roads  were  not  required,  and  since  there 
was  no  traffic,  but  little  labour  was  required  to 
keep  the  roads  in  repair.  They  also  worked  in 
the  rice  fields,  but,  again,  there  were  not  many 
rice  fields.  It  was  easier  to  bring  rice  from 
the  mainland.  There  was  a  herd  of  water  buf 
faloes,  used  for  ploughing  during  the  season, 
and  the  buffaloes  needed  some  attention,  but 
not  much.  So  the  paroled  convicts  were  em 
ployed  in  other  ways  about  the  island,  in  cook 
ing  for  the  prisoners,  in  cleaning  the  various 
buildings,  and  as  servants  in  the  households  of 
the  officials.  Only  the  most  trusted,  however,) 
were  given  such  posts  as  that.  Yet  it  was 
necessary  to  trust  many  of  them,  and  each  of 
ficial  had  a  large  retinue  of  servants,  for  there 
was  little  settlement  work  to  be  done,  and 
something  must  be  done  with  the  men  on, 
parole,  since  the  prison  itself  was  too  small  to 
hold  fifteen  hundred  men  under  lock  and  key 
at  the  same  time.  Moreover,  these  trusted 
[151] 


CIVILIZATION 


ones  were  rather  necessary.  In  the  Tropics, 
work  is  always  done  in  a  small,  half-hearted 
way,  by  reason  of  the  heat  which  so  soon  ex 
hausts  the  vitality,  consequently  many  people 
are  required  to  perform  the  smallest  task. 

Mercier,  therefore,  was  obliged  to  accept  the 
life  as  he  found  it,  and  he  found  it  different 
from  the  romantic  conception  which  he  had 
formed  at  home.  And  he  became  very  listless 
and  demoralised,  and  the  lack  of  interests  of 
all  sorts  bored  him  intolerably.  He  was  not 
one  to  find  solace  in  an  intellectual  life.  The 
bi-monthly  call  of  the  supply  ship  with  its 
stocks  of  provisions,  the  unloading  of  which 
he  must  oversee,  was  the  sole  outside  interestj 
he  had  to  look  forward  to.  Old  newspapers 
and  magazines  came  with  the  supply  ship,  and 
these  were  eagerly  read,  and  soon  abandoned, 
and  nothing  was  left  but  cigarettes  and  brandy 
to  sustain  him  between  whiles. 

On  a  certain  morning,  when  he  had  been  at 
the  settlement  for  over  a  year,  he  finished  his 
daily  report  and  strolled  over  to  lay  it  upon 
the  desk  in  the  office  of  the  Administrator.  The 
supply  ship  was  due  in  that  day,  and  he  wan 
dered  down  to  the  beach  to  look  for  her.  There 
[152] 


PRISONERS 


she  was,  just  dropping  anchor.  His  heart  beat 
a  little  faster,  and  he  hastened  his  steps.  It 
was  cattle  day.  Bullocks  from  the  mainland, 
several  hundred  miles  away,  which  came  once 
a  month  for  food.  He  took  his  boat  and  rowedj 
out  to  the  ship,  and  then  directed  the  work 
of  removing  the  bullocks. 

It  was  nasty  work.  The  coolies  did  it  badly. 
The  hatch  was  opened,  and  by  means  of  a 
block  and  pulley,  each  bullock  was  dragged 
upward  by  a  rope  attached  to  its  horns.  Kick 
ing  and  struggling,  they  were  swung  upwards 
over  the  side  of  the  ship  and  lowered  into  the 
lighter  below.  Sometimes  they  were  swung 
out  too  far  and  landed  straddle  on  the  side  of 
the  lighter,  straddling  the  rail,  kicking  and 
roaring.  And  sometimes,  when  the  loosely 
moored  lighter  drifted  away  a  little  from  the 
ship's  side,  an  animal  would  be  lowered  be 
tween  the  ship's  side  and  the  lighter,  and 
squeezed  between  the  two — so  crushed  that 
when  it  was  finally  hauled  up  and  lowered 
safely  into  the  boat,  it  collapsed  in  a  heap,  with 
blood  flowing  from  its  mouth.  The  coolies  did 
it  all  very  badly — they  had  no  system,  and  as 
Mercier  could  not  speak  to  them  in  their  Ian- 
[153] 


CIVILIZATION 


guage,  he  could  not  direct  them  properly!  Be 
sides,  he  was  no  organiser  himself,  and  prob 
ably  could  not  have  directed  them  properly 
had  he  been  able  to  speak  to  them.  All  he 
could  do,  therefore,  was  to  look  on,  and  let 
them  do  it  in  their  own  way.  Sometimes  as 
an  animal  was  being  raised,  its  horns  would 
break,  and  it  would  be  lowered  with  a  bleed 
ing  head,  while  the  coolies  stood  by  and 
grinned,  and  considered  it  a  joke.  Mercier 
was  still  sensitive  on  some  points,  and  wiiile 
long  ago  he  had  ceased  to  find  any  beauty  in 
the  island,  he  was  nevertheless  disgusted  with 
needless  suffering,  with  stupid,  ugly  acts. 

There  were  only  twenty  cattle  to  be  un 
loaded  on  this  day,  but  it  took  two  hours  to 
transfer  them  to  the  lighter,  and  at  the  end 
of  that  time  the  tide  had  fallen  so  that  they 
must  wait  for  another  six  or  eight  hours,  in 
the  broiling  sun,  until  the  water  was  high 
enough  for  the  lighter  to  approach  the  land 
ing  stage,  where  another  block  and  pulley  was 
rigged.  Which  meant  that  later  in  the  day — 
possibly  in  the  hottest  part — Mercier  would 
be  obliged  to  come  down  again  to  oversee  the 
work,  and  to  see  that  it  was  finished.  For  the 
[154] 


PRISONERS 


cattle  muts  be  ashore  by  evening — meat  was 
needed  for  the  settlement,  and  some  must  be 
killed  for  food  that  night.  Mercier  was  thor 
oughly  disgusted  with  his  work,  with  his  whole 
wasted  life.  Ah,  it  was  a  dog's  life!  Yet  how 
eagerly  he  had  tried  to  obtain  this  post — how 
eagerly  he  had  begged  for  the  chance,  pleaded 
for  it,  besought  the  few  influential  people  he 
knew  to  obtain  it  for  him. 

On  the  way  back  to  his  bungalow,  he  passed 
along  the  palm  grown  road,  on  each  side  of 
which  were  the  red  and  white  bungalows,  resi 
dences  of  the  dozen  officials  of  the  island.  They 
were  screened  by  hedges  of  high  growing 
bushes,  bearing  brilliant,  exotic  flowers  which 
gave  out  a  heavy,  sweet  perfume,  and  the  per 
fume  hung  in  clouds,  invisible  yet  tangible, 
pervading  the  soft,  warm  air.  How  he  had 
dreamed  of  such  perfumes — long  ago.  Yet  how 
sickening  in  reality.  And  how  dull  they  were, 
the  interiors  of  these  sheltered  bungalows,  how 
dull  and  stupid  the  monotonous  life  that  went 
on  inside  them — dejected,  weary,  useless  little 
rounds  of  household  activity,  that  went  along 
languorously  each  day,  and  led  nowhere.  It 
all  led  nowhere.  Within  each  house  was  the 
[155] 


CIVILIZATION 


wearied,  stupid  wife  of  some  petty  official,  and 
sometimes  there  were  stupid,  pallid  children 
as  well,  tended  by  convicts  on  parole.  No 
where  could  he  turn  to  find  intellectual  refresh 
ment.  The  community  offered  nothing — there 
was  no  society — just  the  dull  daily  greetings, 
the  dull,  commonplace  comments  on  island 
doings  or  not  doings,  for  all  lay  under  the  spell 
of  isolation,  under  the  pall  of  the  great,  oppres 
sive,  overwhelming  heat.  How  deadly  it  all 
was,  the  monotonous  life,  the  isolation,  the  lack 
of  interests  and  occupation.  As  he  passed, 
along,  a  frowzy  woman  in  a  Mother  Hubbard 
greeted  him  from  a  verandah  and  asked  him 
to  enter.  Years  ago  she  had  come  out  fresh 
and  blooming,  and  now  she  was  prematurely 
aged,  fat  and  stupid — more  stupid,  perhaps, 
than  the  rest.  Yet  somehow,  because  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do,  Mercier  pushed  open  the 
flimsy  bamboo  gate,  walked  up  the  gravelled 
path,  and  flung  himself  dejectedly  upon  a 
chaise  longue  which  was  at  hand.  And  the 
woman  talked  to  him,  asked  him  how  many 
cattle  had  come  over  that  morning,  whether 
they  were  yet  unloaded,  when  they  would  be 
finally  landed  and  led  to  the  slaughter  pens 
[156] 


PRISONERS 


a  little  way  inland.  It  was  all  so  gross,  so  ba 
nal,  yet  it  was  all  there  was  of  incident  in  the 
day,  and  most  days  were  still  more  barren,  with 
not  even  these  paltry  events  to  discuss.  And 
he  felt  that  he  was  sinking  to  the  level  of  these 
people,  he  who  had  dreamed  of  high  romance, 
of  the  mystery  of  the  Far  Eastern  Tropics! 
And  this  was  what  it  meant — what  it  had  come 
to!  A  fat  woman  in  a  Mother  Hubbard  ask 
ing  him  how  many  bullocks  had  come  in  that 
day,  and  when  they  would  be  ready  to  kill  and 
eat! 

*  She  clapped  together  her  small,  fat  hands, 
and  a  servant  entered,  and  she  ordered  grena 
dine  and  soda  and  liqueurs,  and  pushed  to 
wards  him  a  box  of  cheap  cigarettes.  Where 
was  her  charm?  Why  had  he  married  her,  her 
husband — who  was  at  the  moment  in  the  Ad 
ministrator's  bureau,  compiling  useless  statis 
tics  concerning  the  petty  revenues  of  the  prison 
colony?  But  he  was  just  like  her,  in  his  way. 
All  the  men  were  run  to  seed,  and  all  their 
women  too.  And  these  were  the  only  women 
on  the  island,  these  worn,  pale,  bloated  wives 
who  led  an  idle  life  in  the  blazing  heat.  Seven 
such  women,  all  told.  He  relapsed  into  silence, 
[157] 


CIVILIZATION 


and  she  likewise  fell  silent,  there  being  noth 
ing  more  to  get  nor  give.  They  were  all  gone, 
intellectually.  They  had  no  ideas,  nothing  to 
exchange.  So  he  smoked  on,  lazily,  in  silence, 
feeling  the  slight  stir  in  his  blood  caused  by 
the  Quinquina.  He  filled  his  glass  again,  and 
looked  forward  to  the  next  wave  of  relaxation. 
Overhead,  the  punkah  swung  slowly,  stirring 
the  scented  air.  These  were  the  scents  he  had 
dreamed  of,  the  rich,  heavy  perfumes  of  the 
Tropics.  Only  it  was  all  so  dull! 

The  door  opened  and  a  little  girl  entered 
the  verandah,  a  child  of  perhaps  fourteen.  A 
doomed  child.  He  looked  at  her  languidly, 
and  continued  to  look  at  her,  thinking  vague 
thoughts.  She  was  beautiful.  Her  cotton 
frock,  belted  in  by  some  strange  arrangement 
of  seashells  woven  into  a  girdle,  pressed  tightly 
over  her  young  form,  revealing  clearly  the  out 
line  of  a  childish  figure  soon  ready  to  bloom 
into  full  maturity  under  these  hot  rays  of 
vertical  sunshine.  She  would  develop  soon, 
even  as  the  native  women  developed  into  ma 
turity  very  early.  His  tired  glance  rested 
upon  her  face.  That,  too,  bore  promise  of 
great  beauty.  The  features  were  fine  and  reg- 
[158] 


PRISONERS 


ular,  singularly  wiell  formed,?  and  the  eyes 
those  of  a  gentle  cow,  unspeculative,  unintelli 
gent.  She  was  very  white,  with  the  deathlike 
whiteness  of  the  Tropics,  and  under  the  childish 
eyes  were  deep,  black  rings,  coming  early.  He 
noticed  her  hands — slender,  long,  with  beauti 
ful  fingernails — such  hands  in  Paris!  And 
again  his  roving  glance  fell  lower,  and  rested 
upon  her  bare  legs,  well  formed,  well  de 
veloped,  the  legs  of  a  young  woman.  He 
stirred  lightly  in  his  chair.  The  feet  matched 
the  hands — slender,  long  feet,  with  long, 
slender  toes.  She  was  wearing  native  sandals, 
clumsy  wooden  sandals,  with  knobs  between 
the  first  two  toes.  Only  the  knobs  were  of 
silver,  instead  of  the  usual  buttons  of  bone, 
or  wood.  Some  one  had  brought  them  to  her 
from  the  mainland,  evidently.  Well,  here  she 
was,  a  doomed  creature,  uneducated,  growing 
older,  growing  into  womanhood,  with  no  out 
look  ahead.  Her  only  companions  her  dull, 
stupid  mother,  and  the  worn-out  wives  of  the 
officials — all  years  older  than  herself.  Or 
perhaps  she  depended  for  companionship 
upon  the  children — there  were  a  dozen  such^ 
about  the  place,  between  the  ages  of  two  and 
[159] 


CIVILIZATION 


six.  And  she  stood  between  these  two  groups, 
just  blooming  into  womanhood,  with  her  beau 
tiful  young  body,  and  her  atrophied  young 
brain.  Her  eyes  fell  shyly  under  his  pene 
trating,  speculative  glances,  and  a  wave  of 
colour  rose  into  her  white  cheeks.  She  felt, 
then,  hey?  Felt  what? 

Mercier  leaned  forward,  with  something 
curious  pulsing  in  his  breast.  The  sort  of  feel 
ing  that  he  had  long  since  forgotten,  for  there 
was  nothing  for  such  feelings  to  feed  upon, 
here  in  his  prison.  Yet  the  sensation,  vague  as 
it  was,  seemed  to  have  been  recognised,  shared 
for  an  instant  by  the  young  creature  beside 
him.  It  was  rather  uncanny.  He  had  heard 
that  idiots  or  half-witted  people  were  like  that. 
She  rose  uneasily,  placing  upon  her  long, 
sprawling  curls  an  old  sun  hat,  very  dirty,  the 
brim  misshapen  by  frequent  wettings  of  pipe 
clay.  A  servant  appeared  from  behind  the 
far  corner  of  the  verandah,  an  old  man,  dark 
skinned,  emaciated,  clad  in  a  faded  red  sarong. 
He  was  her  personal  servant,  told  off  to  at 
tend  her.  Something  must  be  done  for  the 
men  on  parole,  some  occupation  given  them  to 
test  their  fitness  before  returning  them  again 
[160] 


PRISONERS 


to  society.  As  she  passed  from  the  verandah, 
followed  by  the  old  black  man  in  his  red  sa 
rong,  Mercier  felt  a  strange  thrill.  Where 
were  they  going,  those  two? 

He  turned  to  the  inattentive,  vacuous 
mother.  "Your  daughter,"  he  began,  "is  fast 
growing  up.  Soon  she  will  be  marrying." 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"With  whom?"  she  answered.  "Who  will 
take  her?  What  dowry  can  we  give  her?  We 
cannot  even  send  her  to  Singapore  to  be  edu 
cated.  Who  will  take  her — ignorant,  unedu 
cated — without  a  dot?  Besides,"  she  contin 
ued  eagerly,  warmed  into  a  burst  of  confidence, 
"you  have  heard — you  have  seen — the  trouble 
lies  here,"  and  she  tapped  her  forehead  sig 
nificantly. 

And  with  a  sigh  she  concluded,  "We  are  all 
prisoners  here,  every  one  of  us — like  the  rest." 

Mercier  rose  from  the  chaise  longue,  still 
thinking  deeply,  still  stirred  by  the  vague  emo 
tion  that  had  called  forth  an  answer  from  the 
immature,  half-witted  child.  He  had  a  report 
to  make  to  the  Bureau,  and  he  must  be  getting 
on.  Later,  when  the  tide  turned,  and  the 
[161] 


CIVILIZATION 


lighter  could  come  against  the  jetty,  he  must 
attend  to  the  cattle. 

He  did  not  linger  in  the  office  of  the  Ad 
ministrator,  but  sent  in  his  report  by  a  waiting 
boy,  and  then  strolled  inland  by  the  road  that 
led  past  the  prison,  into  the  interior  of  the  is 
land.  On  his  way  he  passed  the  graveyard. 
It  was  a  melancholy  graveyard,  containing  a 
few  slanting  shafts  erected  to  the  memory  of 
guards  and  of  one  or  two  officers  who  had  been 
killed  from  time  to  time  by  prisoners  who  had 
run  amok.  Such  uprisings  occurred  now  and 
then,  but  seldom.  He  entered  the  cemetery, 
and  looked  about  languidly,  reading  the  names 
on  the  stones.  Killed,  killed,  killed.  Then  he 
came  upon  a  few  who  had  died  naturally.  Or 
was  it  natural  to  have  died,  at  the  age  of  thirty, 
out  here  on  the  edge  of  the  world?  Yet  it 
was  most  natural,  after  all.  He  himself  was 
nearly  ready  for  the  grave,  ready  because  of 
pure  boredom,  through  pure  inertia,  quite 
ready  to  succumb  to  the  devitalising  effect  of 
this  life.  This  hideous  life  on  a  desert  island. 
This  hideous  mockery  of  life,  lived  while  he 
was  still  so  young  and  so  vital,  and  which  was 
reducing  him,  not  slowly  but  with  great  pac- 
[162] 


PRISONERS 


ing  strides,  to  an  inertia  to  which  he  must  soon 
succumb.  Why  didn't  the  prisoners  revolt 
now,  he  wondered?  He  would  gladly  accept 
such  a  way  out — gladly  offer  himself  to  their 
knives,  or  their  clubs,  or  whatever  it  was  they 
had.  Anything  that  would  put  an  end  to  him, 
and  land  him  under  a  stone  in  this  forsaken 
spot.  Surely  he  was  no  more  alive  than  the 
dead  under  those  stones.  No  more  dead  than 
the  dead. 

He  passed  out  of  the  gate,  swinging  on  a 
loose  hinge,  and  in  deep  meditation  walked 
along  the  palm  bordered  road  back  of  the  set 
tlement.  Soon  the  last  bungalow  was  left  be 
hind,  even  though  he  walked  slowly.  Then 
succeeded  the  paddy  fields,  poorly  tilled  and 
badly  irrigated.  There  were  enough  men  on, 
the  island  to  have  done  it  properly — only  what 
was  the  use?  Who  cared — whether  they 
raised  their  own  rice  or  brought  it  from  the 
mainland  twice  a  month?  It  was  not  a  mat 
ter  to  bother  about.  Water  buffaloes,  graz 
ing  by  the  roadside,  raised  their  heavy  heads 
and  stared  at  him  with  unspeakable  insolence. 
They  were  for  ploughing  the  rice  fields,  but 
who  had  the  heart  to  oversee  the  work?  Bet- 
[163] 


CIVILIZATION 


ter  leave  the  men  squatting  in  content  by  the 
roadside,  under  the  straggly  banana  trees,  than 
urge  them  to  work.  It  meant  more  effort  on 
the  part  of  the  officials  and  effort  was  so  use 
less.  All  so  futile  and  so  hopeless.  He 
nodded  in  recognition  of  the  salutes  given  him 
by  groups  of  paroled  prisoners,  chewing  betel 
nut  under  the  trees.  Let  them  be. 

A  bend  in  the  road  brought  him  to  a  halt. 
Just  beyond,  lying  at  full  length  upon  the 
parched  grass,  was  the  little  girl  he  had  seen 
that  morning.  She  lay  on  her  back,  with  bare 
legs  extended,  asleep.  Nearby,  squatting  on 
his  heels  and  lost  in  a  meditative  pipe,  sat  the 
Kling,  her  body  servant.  The  man  rose  to  his 
feet  respectfully  as  Mercier  passed,  watching 
his  mistress  and  watching  Mercier  with  a  som 
bre  eye.  Mercier  passed  on  slowly,  with  a 
long  glance  at  the  child.  She  was  not  a  child, 
really.  Her  cotton  dress  clung  round  her 
closely,  and  he  gazed  fascinated,  at  the  young 
figure,  realising  that  it  was  mature.  Mature 
enough.  A  thought  suddenly  rose  to  his  mind, 
submerging  everything  else.  He  walked  on 
hurriedly,  and  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  looked 
[164] 


PRISONERS 


back.     The  Kling  was  sitting  down  again  im 
passively,  refilling  his  pipe. 

From  that  time  on,  Mercier's  days  were 
days  of  torment,  and  the  nights  as  well.  He 
struggled  violently  against  this  new  feeling,  * 
this  hideous  obsession,  and  plunged  into  his 
work  violently,  to  escape  it.  But  his  work, 
meagre  and  insufficient  at  best,  was  merely  fin 
ished  the  sooner  because  of  his  energy,  which 
left  him  with  more  time  on  his  hands.  That 
was  all.  Time  in  which  to  think  and  to  strug 
gle.  No,  certainly,  he  did  not  wish  to  marry. 
That  thought  was  put  aside  immediately. 
Marry  a  stupid  little  child  like  that,  with  a 
brain  as  fat  as  her  body!  But  not  as  beauti 
ful  as  her  body.  Besides,  she  was  too  young 
to  marry,  even  in  the  Tropics,  where  all  things 
mate  young.  But  there  she  was,  forever  com 
ing  across  his  path  at  every  turn.  In  his  long 
walks  back  into  the  interior,  behind  the  set 
tlement,  he  came  upon  her  daily,  with  her  at 
tendant  Kling.  The  Kling  always  squatting 
on  his  heels,  smoking,  or  else  rolling  himself 
a  bit  of  areca  nut  into  a  sirrah-leaf,  and  dab 
bing  on  a  bit  of  pink  lime  from  his  worn,  sil 
ver  box.  Mercier  tried  to  talk  to  the  child, 
[165] 


CIVILIZATION 


to  disillusion  himself  by  conversations  which 
showed  the  paucity  of  ideas,  her  retarded  men 
tality.  But  he  always  ended  by  looking  at 
the  beautiful,  slim  hands,  at  the  beautiful,  slim 
feet,  at  the  cotton  gown  slightly  pressed  out 
ward  by  the  maturing  form  within. 

He  was  angry  with  himself,  furious  at  the 
obsession  that  possessed  him.  Once  he  en 
tered  the  gravelled  path  of  the  child's  home, 
and  seriously  discussed  with  her  mother  the 
danger  of  letting  her  roam  at  large  over  the 
island,  accompanied  only  by  the  old  Kling. 
He  explained  vigorously  that  it  was  not  safe. 
There  were  hundreds  of  paroled  prisoners  at 
large,  engaged  in  the  ricefields,  on  the  plan 
tations,  mending  the  roads — there  was  not  a 
native  woman  on  the  place.  He  explained 
and  expostulated  volubly,  surprised  at  his  own 
eloquence.  The  mother  took  it  calmly.  The 
Kling,  she  replied,  was  trustworthy.  He  was 
an  old  man,  very  trustworthy  and  very  strong. 
No  harm  could  come  to  her  daughter  under 
his  protection.  And  the  long  rambles  abroad 
were  good  for  the  child.  Was  she  not  accus 
tomed  to  convicts,  as  servants?  She  had  a 
houseful  of  them,  and  many  years'  experience. 
[166] 


PRISONERS 


What  did  he  know  of  them,  a  comparative  new 
comer?  For  example,  she  had  three  pirates, 
Malays  from  the  coast  of  Siam.  They  were 
quiet  enough  now.  And  one  Cambodian,  a 
murderer,  true  enough,  but  gentle  enough 
now.  Three  house-boys  and  a  cook.  As  for 
the  old  Kling,  he  was  a  marvel — he  had  been 
a  thief  in  his  day,  but  now — well  now,  he  was 
body-servant  for  her  daughter  and  a  more] 
faithful  soul  it  would  be  hard  to  find.  For 
seven  years  she  had  lived  upon  the  island,  sur 
rounded  by  these  men.  She  knew  them  well 
enough.  True,  there  was  the  graveyard  back 
of  the  prison  compound,  eloquent,  mute  testi 
mony  of  certain  lapses  from  trustworthiness, 
but  she  was  not  afraid.  She  had  no  imagina 
tion,  and  Mercier,  failing  to  make  her  sense 
danger,  gave  it  up.  It  had  been  a  great  effort. 
He  had  been  pleading  for  protection  against 
himself. 

Mercier  awoke  one  morning  very  early.  It 
was  early,  but  still  dark,  for  never,  in  these 
baleful  Tropics,  did  the  dawn  precede  the  sun 
rise,  and  there  was  no  slow,  gradual  greying 
and  rosying  creeping  of  daylight,  preceding 
the  dawn.  It  was  early  and  dark,  with  a  damp 
[167] 


CIVILIZATION 


coolness  in  the  air,  and  he  reached  down  from 
his  cot  for  his  slippers,  and  first  clapped  them 
together  before  placing  them  upon  his  slim 
feet.  Then  he  arose,  stepped  out  upon  his 
verandah,  and  thought  awhile.  Darkness 
everywhere,  and  the  noise  of  the  surf  beating 
within  the  enclosed  crescent  of  the  harbour. 
Over  all,  a  great  heat,  tinged  with  a  damp 
coolness,  a  coolness  which  was  sinister.  And 
standing  upon  his  verandah,  came  rushing 
over  him  the  agony  of  his  wasted  life.  His 
prisoner  life  upon  this  lonely  island  in  the 
Southern  Seas.  Exchanged,  this  wasted  life, 
for  his  romantic  dreams,  and  a  salary  of  a  few 
hundred  francs  a  year.  That  day  he  would 
write  and  ask  for  his  release — send  in  his  res 
ignation — although  it  would  be  weeks  or 
months  before  he  could  be  relieved.  As  he 
stood  there  in  agony,  the  dawn  broke  before 
him  suddenly,  as  Tropic  dawns  do  break,  all 
of  a  sudden,  with  a  rush.  Before  him  rose  the 
high  peaks  of  the  binding  mountains,  high,  im 
passable,  black  peaks,  towering  like  a  wall  of 
rock.  It  was  the  wall  of  the  world,  and  he 
could  not  scale  it.  Before  him  stretched  the 
curve  of  the  southern  sea,  in  a  crescent,  but 
[168] 


PRISONERS 


for  all  its  fluidity,  as  impassable  as  the  backing 
wall  of  rock.  Between  the  two  he  was 
hemmed  in,  on  a  narrow  strip  of  land,  enclosed 
between  the  mountain  wall  and  the  curving 
reach  of  sea.  He  and  all  his  futile  interests 
lay  within  that  narrow  strip  of  land,  between 
the  mountain  wall  and  the  sea — and  the  strip 
was  very  narrow  and  small. 

He  went  forth  from  his  bungalow,  pulling 
upon  his  feet  clumsy  native  sandals  of  wood, 
with  a  button  between  the  toes.  For  under 
foot  lay  the  things  he  dreaded,  the  heat  things, 
the  things  bred  by  this  warm  climate  enclosed 
between  the  high  wall  of  the  mountains  and  the 
infitting  curve  of  the  sea.  He  tramped  awk 
wardly  along  in  his  loose  fitting  sandals,  fast 
at  the  toe,  clapping  up  and  down  at  the  heel. 
The  one  street  of  the  town  through  which  he 
passed  was  bordered  by  the  houses  of  the  offi 
cials,  all  sleeping.  They  were  accustomed  to 
sleeping.  Only  he,  Mercier,  could  not  sleep. 
He  was  not  yet  accustomed  to  being  a  pris 
oner.  Perhaps — in  time 

He  clapped  along  gently,  though  to  him  it 
seemed  very  noisily,  past  the  bungalows  of 
the  officials,  past  the  big  prison,  also  sleep- 
[169] 


CIVILIZATION 


ing.  Past  the  Administration  buildings,  past 
the  weed-grown,  unused  tennis  courts,  out 
upon  the  red  road  leading  to  the  mountains. 
Turn  upon  turn  of  the  red  road  he  passed,  and 
then  stopped,  halted  by  a  sight.  A  sight 
which  for  weeks  past  he  had  worn  in  his  heart, 
but  which  he  had  never  hoped  to  see  fulfilled. 
She  was  there,  that  child!  That  child  so 
young,  so  voluptuous  in  her  development,  so 
immature  in  her  mentality,  and  beside  her,  a 
little  way  away,  sat  the  Kling  prisoner  who 
guarded  her.  The  Kling  squatted  upon  his 
heels,  chewing  areca  nut,  and  spitting  long 
distances  before  him.  The  child  also  squatted 
upon  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  very  listless. 
The  Kling  did  not  move  as  Mercier  ap 
proached,  clapping  in  his  sandals.  But  the 
child  moved  and  cast  upon  him  a  luminous, 
frightened  gaze,  and  then  regarded  him  fix 
edly.  Therefore  Mercier  sat  down  by  the 
child,  and  noted  her.  Noted  her  with  a  hun 
gry  feeling,  taking  in  every  beautiful  detail. 
Her  exquisite  little  hands,  and  her  exquisite 
little  feet,  shod  in  wooden  sandals,  with  a  but 
ton  between  the  toes,  such  sandals  as  he  was 
wearing.  He  talked  to  her  a  little,  and  she 
[170] 


PEISONERS 


answered  in  half-shy,  frightened  tones,  but  un 
derneath  he  detected  a  note  of  passion — such 
as  he  felt  for  her.  She  was  fourteen  years 
old,  you  see,  and  fully  developed,  partly  be 
cause  she  was  half-witted,  and  partly  because 
of  these  hot  temperatures  under  the  Equator. 
Thus  it  befell  that  every  morning  Mercier 
arose  early,  clad  his  feet  in  noisy,  clapping  san 
dals,  and  went  out  for  a  walk  along  the  red 
road  underlying  the  mountain.  And  every 
morning,  almost  by  accident,  he  met  the  half 
witted  child  with  her  faithful  Kling  attendant. 
And  the  Kling,  squatting  down  upon  his  heels, 
chewed  areca  nut,  and  spat  widely  and  indif 
ferently,  while  Mercier  sat  down  beside  the 
little  girl  and  wondered  how  long  he  could 
stand  it — before  his  control  gave  way.  For 
she  was  a  little  animal,  you  see,  and  yearned 
for  him  in  a  sort  of  fourteen-year-old  style, 
fostered  by  the  intense  heat  of  the  Tropics. 
But  Mercier,  not  yet  very  long  from  home, 
held  back — because  of  certain  inhibitions. 
Sometimes  he  thought  he  would  ask  for  her  in 
marriage — which  was  ridiculous,  and  showed 
that  life  in  the  Far  East,  especially  in  a  prison 
colony,  affects  the  brain.  At  other  times,  he 
[171] 


CIVILIZATION 


thought  how  very  awkward  it  would  be,  in  such 
a  little,  circumscribed  community  as  that,  if 
he  did  not  ask  her  in  marriage.  Suppose  she 
babbled — as  she  might  well  do.  There  is  no 
accounting  for  the  feeble-minded.  But  as  the 
days  grew  on,  madder  and  wilder  he  became, 
earlier  and  earlier  he  arose  to  meet  her,  to  go 
forth  to  find  her  on  the  red  road  beneath  the 
mountains.  There  she  was  always  waiting  for 
him,  while  the  Kling,  her  attendant,  squatted 

chewing  betel  nut  a  little  farther  on. 

****** 

In  time,  he  had  enough.  He  had  had  quite 
enough.  She  was  a  stupid  fool,  half-witted. 
He  grew  quite  satiated.  Also  he  grew 
alarmed.  Very  much  alarmed.  But  always, 
in  the  distance,  with  his  back  discreetly  turned, 
sat  her  Kling  guardian,  the  paroled  prisoner, 
chewing  betel  nut.  So  his  way  out  was  easy. 
One  day,  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
clad  in  very  immaculate  white  clothes,  he  came 
to  call  upon  the  child's  parents,  with  a  painful 
duty  to  perform.  He  must  report  what  he 
had  seen.  When  out  taking  his  constitu 
tional,  he  had  seen  certain  things  in  an  isolated 
spot  of  the  red  road,  leading  up  to  the  moun- 
[172] 


PRISONERS 


tains.  These  paroled  prisoners  could  not  be 
trusted — he  had  intimated  as  much  weeks  ago. 
Therefore  he  made  his  report,  his  painful  re 
port,  as  compelled  by  duty.  In  his  pocket  was 
his  release — the  acceptance  of  his  resignation. 
His  recall  from  his  post.  When  the  boat  came 
in  next  time — that  day,  in  fact — he  would  go. 
But  he  could  not  go,  with  a  clear  conscience, 
till  he  had  reported  on  what  he  had  seen.  The 
Kling — the  old,  stupid,  trusted  Kling — stupid 
to  trust  a  child  like  that  with  a  servant  like 

that 

So  the  Kling  was  hanged  next  morning,  and 
Mercier  sailed  away  that  afternoon,  when  the 
little  steamer  came  in.  The  little  colony  on 
the  island  of  prisoners  went  on  with  its  life  as 
usual.  Ah,  bah!  There  was  no  harm  done! 
She  was  so  very  immature !  Mercier  need  not 
have  exacted  the  life  of  the  Kling  servant, 
after  all.  He  was  supersensitive  and  over 
scrupulous.  Life  in  a  prison  colony  in  the  Far 
East  certainly  affects  one's  judgment. 


[173] 


CANTERBURY  CHIMES 


CANTERBURY  CHIMES 

THE  Colonial  Bishop  lay  spread  out  on  his 
long,  rattan  chair,  idly  contemplating  the  view 
of  the  harbour,  as  seen  from  his  deep,  cool  ver 
andah.  As  he  lay  there,  pleasant  thoughts 
crossed  his  mind,  swam  across  his  conscious 
ness  in  a  continuous  stream,  although,  properly 
speaking,  he  was  not  thinking  at  all.  The 
thoughts  condensed  in  patches,  were  mere  ag 
glomerations  of  feelings  and  impressions,  and 
they  strung  themselves  across  his  mind  as  beads 
are  strung  along  a  string.  His  mental  fingers, 
however,  slipped  the  beads  along,  and  he  de 
rived  an  impression  of  each  bead  as  it  passed 
before  his  half  closed  eyes.  The  first  that 
appeared  was  a  sense  of  physical  well-being. 
He  liked  the  climate.  This  climate  of  the  Far 
Eastern  Tropics,  which  so  few  people  could 
stand,  much  less  enjoy.  But  he  liked  it;  he 
liked  its  enclosing  sense  of  warmth  and  damp- 
[177] 


CIVILIZATION 


ness  and  heavy  scented  atmosphere.  Never 
before  had  he  brought  such  an  appetite  to  his 
meals,  or  so  enjoyed  his  exercise,  or  revelled  in 
perspiration  after  a  hard  bicycle  ride,  and  so 
enjoyed  the  cool  wash  and  splash  in  the  Java 
jar  afterwards.  The  climate  suited  him  admir 
ably.  It  made  one  very  fit,  physically,  and 
was  altogether  delightful.  From  this  you  will 
see  that  the  Bishop  was  a  young  man,  not  over 
forty-five. 

Then  the  servants.  Good  boys  he  had,  well 
trained,  obedient,  anticipative,  amusing,  pic 
turesque  in  their  Oriental  dress.  Rather  try 
ing  because  of  their  laziness,  but  not  too  exas 
perating  to  be  a  real  irritant.  So  many  people 
found  native  servants  a  downright  source  of 
annoyance — even  worse  than  the  climate — 
but  for  himself,  he  had  never  found  them  so. 
They  gave  him  no  trouble  at  all,  and  he  had 
been  out  ten  years,  so  ought  to  know. 

The  native  life  was  charming  too,  so  rich  in 
colour,  in  all  its  gay  costumes.  Surely  the  first 
Futurists  must  have  been  the  Orientals.  No 
modern  of  the  most  ultra-modern  school  had 
ever  revelled  in  such  gorgeous  colour  combina 
tions,  in  such  daring  contrasts  and  lurid  ex- 
[178] 


CANTERBURY   CHIMES 


tremes,  as  did  these  dark  hued  people,  in  their 
primitive  simplicity.  He  liked  them  all,  de 
cent  and  docile.  He  liked  their  earrings — 
only  that  day  he  had  counted  a  row  of  nine  in 
the  ear  of  some  wandering  juggler.  Nose 
rings  too — how  pretty  they  were,  nose  rings. 
Rubies  too,  and  most  of  them  real,  doubtless. 
How  well  they  looked  in  the  nostril  of  a  thin, 
aquiline  brown  nose.  It  all  went  with  the 
country.  Barbaric,  perhaps,  contrasted  with 
other  standards,  but  beautiful — in  its  way.  He 
would  not  change  it  for  the  world. 

And  the  perfumes !  A  faint  scent  of  garde 
nias  was  at  that  moment  being  wafted  in  from 
his  well-kept,  rich  gardens,  where  somehow  his 
boys  managed  to  make  flowers  grow  in  the 
brown,  devitalised  earth.  For  the  soil  was 
devitalised,  surely.  It  got  no  rest,  year  in, 
year  out.  For  centuries  it  had  nourished,  in 
one  long,  eternal  season,  the  great  rich  mass  of 
tropical  vegetation.  European  flowers  would 
not  grow  in  the  red  earth,  or  the  black  earth, 
whichever  it  was — he  had  been  accustomed  to 
think  of  red  or  black  earth  as  being  rich,  but 
out  here  in  the  Tropics,  it  was  unable  to  pro 
duce,  for  more  than  a  brief  season,  the  flowers 
[179] 


CIVILIZATION 


and  shrubs  that  were  native  to  his  home  land. 
But  gardenias  and  frangipanni 

The  next  bead  that  slipped  along  was  the 
memory  of  an  Arab  street  at  dusk — the  mer 
chants  sitting  at  their  shop  fronts,  the  gloom 
of  the  little,  narrow  shops,  the  glow  of  rich 
stuffs  and  rich  colours  that  lay  in  neat  piles  on 
the  shelves,  and  the  scent  of  incense  burning  in 
little  earthenware  braziers  at  the  door  of  each 
shop — how  sweet  was  the  warm  air,  laden  with 
this  deeply  sweet  smell  of  burning,  glowing 
incense 

A  step  sounded  on  the  verandah,  and  the 
Bishop  concluded  his  revery  abruptly.  It  was 
not  the  nearly  noiseless  step  of  a  bare  foot, 
such  as  his  servants.  It  was  the  step  of  some 
one  in  European  shoes,  yet  without  the  firm, 
decided  tramp  of  a  European.  Yet  the  tread 
of  a  European  shoe,  muffled  to  the  slithering, 
soft  effect  of  a  native  foot.  A  naked  foot, 
booted.  This  was  the  Bishop's  hour  of  rest, 
and  his  servants  had  instructions  to  admit  no 
one.  Well,  no  one  in  a  general  sense,  yet  there 
were  always  two  or  three  recognised  excep 
tions.  But  it  was  not  one  of  these  exceptions, 
coming  in  noiselessly  like  that.  The  Bishop 
[180] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


sprang  up,  standing  straddle  of  his  long  chair, 
and  looking  fixedly  in  the  direction  of  the  ap 
proaching  sound.  He  hated  interruptions, 
and  was  indignant  to  think  that  any  one 
should  have  slipped  in,  past  the  eyes  of  his 
watchful  servants.  Just  then  a  figure  ap 
peared  at  the  far  end  of  the  verandah,  a  white 
clad  figure  rapidly  advancing.  A  dark 
skinned,  slim  figure,  clad  in  white  linen  Euro 
pean  clothes,  even  down  to  a  pair  of  new,  ill 
fitting,  white  canvas  shoes  with  rubber  soles. 
That  accounted  for  the  sound  resembling  bare 
feet.  Really,  they  could  never  wear  shoes 
properly,  these  natives,  however  much  they 
might  try. 

Still  standing  straddle  across  his  chair,  the 
Bishop  called  out  angrily  to  the  intruder. 
Since  he  was  not  a  European,  and  obviously 
not  a  native  Prince — native  princes  never 
slithered  in  like  that,  all  the  pomp  of  the  East 
heralded  their  coming — the  Bishop  could  af 
ford  to  let  his  annoyance  manifest  itself  in  his 
voice.  Therefore  he  called  out  sharply,  asking 
the  stranger's  business. 

A  slim  youth  stepped  forward,  bare  headed, 
hollow  chested,  very  dark  in  the  gathering 
[181] 


CIVILIZATION 


twilight,  and  his  hands  clasped  together  as  if 
in  supplication,  stood  out  blackly  against  the 
whiteness  of  his  tunic.  The  Bishop  noticed 
that  they  were  trembling.  Well  they  might, 
for  he  had  taken  a  great  liberty,  by  this  pre 
sumptuous,  unannounced  visit.  It  had  a  sort 
of  sneaking  character  about  it.  Coming  to 
steal,  perhaps,  and  being  surprised  in  the  act, 
had  determined  to  brazen  it  out  under  the  pre 
text  of  a  visit.  The  young  man,  however, 
walked  boldly  up  to  the  Bishop's  chair,  and  the 
Bishop,  rather  taken  aback,  sat  himself  down 
again  and  extended  his  legs  on  the  rest,  in 
their  usual  comfortable  position. 

"I've  come  to  see  you,  Sir,"  began  the 
stranger,  using  very  good  English  though  with 
a  marked  native  accent,  "on  a  question  of  great 
importance.  On  a  matter  of  principle — of 
high  principle.  I've  never  seen  you  before, 
but  you  are  known  to  me  by  reputation." 

The  Bishop  snorted  at  this  piece  of  impu 
dence,  but  the  youth  went  on  unabashed. 

"A  very  noble  reputation,  if  I  may  presume 

to  say  so.     But  you  know  that,  of  course. 

What  you  are,  what  you  stand  for.    Therefore 

I  have  dared  to  come  to  you  for  help.    It  is 

[182] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


not  a  matter  of  advice — that  does  not  enter  in 
at  all.  But  I  want  your  great  help — on  our 
side.  To  right  a  great,  an  immense,  an  im 
mensely  growing  wrong." 

The  youth  hesitated  and  stopped,  wringing 
his  dark,  thin  hands  together  in  evident  agita 
tion.  The  Bishop  surveyed  him  coldly,  with 
curiosity,  without  sympathy,  enjoying  his  em 
barrassment.  So  that  was  it — some  griev 
ance,  real  or  fancied.  Fancied,  most  likely. 
He  felt  a  distinct  sense  of  resentment  that  his 
hour  of  repose  should  have  been  broken  in 
upon  so  rudely  by  this  native — bringing  him 
wrongs  to  redress  in  this  uncalled  for  manner. 
There  were  plenty  of  people  in  the  Bishop's 
service  expressly  appointed  for  the  purpose 
of  looking  into  complaints  and  attending  to 
them.  To  bring  them  up  to  headquarters,  to 
the  Bishop  himself,  was  an  act  of  downright 
impertinence.  Very  much  as  if  a  native  should 
bring  his  petty  quarrels  up  to  the  Governor- 
General.  These  thoughts  passed  through  the 
Bishop's  mind  as  he  regarded  the  intruder  with 
a  fixed  and  most  unfriendly  eye.  A  few  mo 
ments  of  hesitating  silence  followed,  while  the 
Bishop  watched  the  darting  movements  of  a 
[183] 


CIVILIZATION 


lizard  on  the  wall,  and  waited  for  the  stranger 
to  continue. 

"I  want  your  help,"  went  on  the  youth  in  a 
low  voice.  "You  are  so  powerful — you  can  do 
so  much.  Not  as  a  man,  but  because  of  your 
office.  Perhaps  as  a  man,  too,  for  they  say 
you  are  a  good  and  just  man.  But  the  com 
bination  of  a  strong  man  in  a  high  office — 

Still  no  help  from  the  Bishop.  That  he  did 
not  clap  his  hands  together  and  call  for  his 
servants  to  have  this  intruder  thrown  out, 
marked  him,  in  his  estimation,  as  the  kind  of 
man  that  the  youth  had  suggested.  A  just  and 
liberal  man.  Very  well,  he  was  ready  to  listen. 
Now  that  he  was  caught,  so  to  speak,  and 
obliged  to  listen  against  his  will. 

"It's  about  the  opium  traffic,"  explained  the 
young  man,  breathing  hard  with  excitement, 
and  wringing  his  thin  hands  together  in  dis 
tress. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  exclaimed  the  Bishop, 
breaking  silence.  "I  thought  it  must  be  some 
such  thing.  I  mean,  something  that  is  no  con 
cern  of  mine — nor  yours  either,"  he  concluded 
sharply. 

"It  is  both  my  concern  and  your  concern," 
[184] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


replied  the  young  man  solemnly,  "both  yours 
and  mine.  Your  race,  your  country,  is  sinning 
against  my  race  and  my  country 

"Your  country!"  interrupted  the  Bishop  dis 
dainfully. 

"Yes,  my  country!"  exclaimed  the  young 
man  proudly.  "Mine  still,  for  all  that  you 
have  conquered  it,  and  civilized  it  and  degraded 
it!" 

The  Bishop  sprang  up  from  his  chair  an 
grily,  and  then  sank  back  again,  determined  to 
listen.  He  would  let  this  fellow  say  all  he  had 
to  say,  and  then  have  him  arrested  afterwards. 
He  would  let  him  condemn  himself  out  of  his 
own  mouth.  How  well  they  spoke  English 
too,  these  educated  natives. 

"What  is  this  Colony,  Sir,"  continued  the 
young  man  gaining  control  of  himself,  "but 
a  market  for  the  opium  your  Government 
sells?  For  you  know,  Sir,  as  well  as  I,  that  the 
sale  of  opium  is  a  monopoly  of  your  Govern 
ment.  And  we  are  helpless,  defenceless,  power 
less  to  protect  ourselves.  And  do  you  know 
what  your  Government  makes  out  of  this 
trade,  Sir — the  revenue  it  collects  from  selling 
opium  to  my  people?  Three  quarters  of  the 
[185] 


CIVILIZATION 


revenue  of  this  Colony  are  derived  from  opium. 
Your  Government  runs  this  colony  on  our  deg 
radation.  You  build  your  roads,  your  forts, 
your  schools,  your  public  buildings,  on  this  vice 
that  you  have  forced  upon  us.  Before  you 
came,  with  your  civilization,  we  were  decent. 
Very  decent,  on  the  whole.  Now  look  at  us — 
what  do  you  see?  How  many  shops  in  this  town 
are  licensed  by  your  Government  for  the  sale 
of  opium — and  the  license  money  pocketed  as 
revenue?  How  many  opium  divans,  where  we 
may  smoke,  are  licensed  by  your  Government, 
and  the  license  money  pocketed  as  part  of  the 
revenue?" 

"You  needn't  smoke  unless  you  wish  to," 
remarked  the  Bishop  drily.  "We  don't  force 
you  to  do  it.  We  don't  put  the  pipe  between 
your  teeth  and  insist  upon  your  drugging 
yourselves.  How  many  shops  do  you  say 
there  are — how  many  smoking  places?  Sev 
eral  hundred?  We  don't  force  you  into  them, 
I  take  it.  You  go  of  your  own  choice,  don't 
you?  We  Europeans  don't  do  it.  It's  as  free 
for  us  as  it  is  for  you.  We  have  the  same  op 
portunities  to  kill  ourselves — I  suppose  that's 
[186] 


CANTERBURY   CHIMES 


how  you  look  at  it — as  you  do.  Yet  somehow 
we  abstain.  If  you  can't  resist " 

The  Bishop  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Yet 
he  rather  despised  himself  for  the  argument. 
It  sounded  cheap  and  unworthy,  somehow. 
The  youth,  however,  did  not  seem  to  resent  it, 
and  went  on  sadly. 

"It's  true,"  he  said,  "we  need  not,  I  sup 
pose.  Yet  you  know,"  he  continued  humbly, 
"we  are  a  very  simple  people.  We  are  very 
primitive,  very — lowly.  We  didn't  under 
stand  at  first,  and  now  it's  too  late.  We've 
most  of  us  got  the  habit,  and  the  rest  are  get 
ting  it.  We're  weak  and  ignorant.  We  want 
you  to  protect  us  from  ourselves.  Just  as  you 
protect  your  own  people — at  home.  You  don't 
import  it  into  your  own  country — you  don't 
want  to  corrupt  your  own  people.  But  what 
about  the  races  you  colonise  and  subject — who 
can't  protect  themselves?  It's  not  fair!"  he 
concluded  passionately,  "and  besides,  this  year 
you  have  sold  us  two  millions  more  than  last 
year " 

"Where  did  you  get  your  figures?"  broke 
in  the  Bishop  with  rising  indignation.  This 
[187] 


CIVILIZATION 


cowering,  trembling  boy  seemed  to  have  all 
the  arguments  on  his  side. 

"From  your  own  reports,  Sir.  Government 
reports.  Compiled  by  your  own  officials." 

"And  how  did  you  obtain  a  Government  re 
port?"  asked  the  Bishop  angrily.  "Spying, 
eh?" 

The  young  man  ignored  the  insult,  and  went 
on  patiently.  "Some  are  distributed  free,  oth 
ers  may  be  bought  at  the  book  shops.  There  is 
one  lying  on  your  table  this  moment,  Sir." 

"Well  enough  for  me,"  remarked  the 
Bishop,  "but  how  did  you  come  by  it?"  The 
sharp  eyes  had  recognised  the  fat,  blue  volume 
buried  under  a  miscellaneous  litter  of  books 
and  pamphlets  on  a  wicker  table.  A  lean 
finger  pointed  towards  it,  and  the  accusing 
voice  went  on. 

"There  is  more  than  opium  in  that  Report, 
Sir.  Look  at  the  schools.  How  little  school 
ing  do  you  give  us,  how  little  money  do  you 
spend  for  them.  We  are  almost  illiterate — 
yet  you  have  ruled  us  for  many  years.  How 
little  do  you  spend  on  schools,  so  that  you  may 
keep  us  submissive  and  ignorant?  You  know 
how  freely  you  provide  us  with  opium,  so  that 
[188] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


we  may  be  docile  and  easy  to  manage — easy  to 
manage  and  exploit." 

The  Bishop  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  mak 
ing  a  grasp  for  the  white  coat  of  his  tormentor, 
but  the  fellow  nimbly  avoided  him,  and  darted 
to  the  other  side  of  the  table.  It  was  almost 
completely  dark  by  this  time,  and  the  Bishop 
could  not  pursue  his  guest  in  the  gloom,  nor 
could  he  reach  the  bell. 

"Are  you  a  Seditionist,  Sir?  How  dare  you 
criticise  the  Government?"  The  answer  was 
immediate  and  unexpected. 

"Yes,  I  criticise  the  Government — just  as  I 
have  been  criticising  it  to  you.  But  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger.  Although  in  time  the 
anger  may  come.  Therefore  that  is  why  I 
have  come  to  you — for  help,  before  our  anger 
comes.  You  are  a  strong  man,  a  just,  a  liberal 
man — so  I'm  told.  You  hold  a  high  position 
in  the  Church  maintained  by  your  Govern 
ment,  just  as  the  opium  traffic  is  maintained 
by  your  Government.  Both  are  Government 
monopolies." 

In  the  distance  the  cathedral  chimes  rang 
over  the  still  air — the  old,  sweet  Canterbury 
chimes,  pealing  the  full  round,  for  it  was  the 
[189] 


CIVILIZATION 


hour.  Then  the  hour  struck,  and  both  men 
counted  it,  mechanically. 

"Your  salary,  Sir — as  well  as  the  salaries  of 
the  other  priests  of  your  established  church» 
out  here  in  this  Colony — comes  from  the  es 
tablished  opium  trade.  Your  Canterbury 
chimes  ring  out,  every  fifteen  minutes,  over 
the  opium  dens  of  the  Crown!" 

At  this  supreme  insult  the  Bishop  leaped  at 
his  tormentor,  striking  a  blow  into  space.  The 
youth  bounded  over  the  low  rail  of  the  veran 
dah  and  disappeared  amongst  the  shrubbery  in 
the  darkness. 

To  say  that  the  Bishop  was  shaken  by  this 
interview  is  to  put  it  mildly.  For  he  was  a 
good  man  in  his  way,  and  moreover,  in  a  cer 
tain  restricted  sense,  a  religious  one.  But  he 
was  lazy  and  not  inclined  to  meddle  in  affairs 
that  did  not  concern  him.  And  colonial  poli 
tics  and  the  management  of  colonial  affairs 
were  certainly  not  his  concern.  Nevertheless, 
the  horrible  grouping  together  of  facts,  as  the 
young  Seditionist  had  grouped  them  for  him, 
their  adroit  placing  together,  with  the  hideous, 
unavoidable  connection  between  them,  upset 
him  tremendously.  He  sat  on  in  the  darkness 
[190] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


trying  to  think,  trying  to  see  his  way  clear, 
trying  to  excuse  or  to  justify.  He  had  never 
thought  of  these  things  before,  yet  he  well 
knew  of  their  existence.  All  sorts  of  injustices 
abounded  in  civilized  states — it  was  perhaps 
worse  in  the  colonies.  Yet  even  in  the  colonies, 
little  by  little  they  were  being  weeded  out,  or 
adjusted.  Yet  this  particular  evil,  somehow, 
seemed  to  flourish  untouched.  Not  an  effort 
was  made  to  uproot  it.  The  only  effort  made, 
apparently,  was  to  increase  and  encourage  it. 
And  with  the  acquiescence  of  men  like  himself. 
All  for  what — for  money?  For  Crown  rev 
enues!  Pretty  poor  business,  come  to  think 
of  it.  Surely,  if  the  Colony  could  not  exist  by 
honest  and  legitimate  trade,  it  might  better 
not  exist  at  all.  To  thrive  upon  the  vices  of  a 
subject  people,  to  derive  nearly  the  whole  reve 
nue  from  those  vices,  really,  somehow,  it 
seemed  incompatible  with — with — that  nasty 
fling  about  the  Church ! 

He  rang  for  his  boy,  and  a  lamp  was  brought 
in  and  placed  upon  the  table  beside  him,  and 
the  Bishop  reached  over  for  the  unheeded  Re 
port,  which  had  been  lying  on  the  table  so  long. 
The  columns  of  figures  seemed  rather  formi- 

[191] 


CIVILIZATION 


dable — he  hated  statistics,  but  he  applied  him 
self  to  the  Report  conscientiously.  Yes,  there 
it  was  in  all  its  simplicity  of  crude,  bald  state 
ments,  just  as  the  young  man  had  said. 
Glaring,  horrible  facts,  disgraceful  facts.  For 
an  hour  he  sat  absorbed  in  them,  noting  the 
yearly  increase  in  consumption  as  indicated  by 
the  yearly  increase  in  revenue.  Three  quarters 
of  the  revenue  from  opium — one  quarter  from 
other  things.  He  wondered  vaguely  about  his 
salary;  that  painful  allusion  to  it  troubled  him. 
It  was  just  possible  that  it  came  from  the  one 
quarter  derived  from  legitimate  trade.  Cer 
tainly,  it  was  quite  possible.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  there  was  an  unquiet  suspicion  that  per 
haps  it  didn't. 

The  Bishop  moved  into  the  dining  room, 
carrying  the  fat  Blue  Book  under  his  arm,  and 
read  it  carefully  during  his  solitary  meal. 
Those  carefully  compiled  tables,  somehow,  did 
not  do  credit  to  what  he  had  heretofore  been 
pleased  to  consider  the  greatest  colonising  na 
tion  in  the  world.  Were  all  colonies  like  that — 
run  on  these  principles?  Yet  the  Government, 
apparently,  had  felt  no  hesitation  in  setting 
forth  these  facts  explicitly.  Presumably  the 
[192] 


CANTERBURY   CHIMES 


Government  felt  justified.  Yet  it  certainly 
was  not — the  word  honourable  rose  to  his  mind, 
but  he  suppressed  it  at  once — however,  nothing 
else  suggested  itself.  Years  ago,  so  many 
years  ago  that  he  had  lost  count,  the  Bishop 
had  worked  for  a  time  in  the  East  End.  He 
had  had  clubs  and  classes,  and  worked  with 
the  young  men.  He  used  to  know  a  good  deal 

about  certain  things,  and  to  feel  strongly 

But  since  then  he  had  become  prosperous,  and 
a  high  dignitary  in  the  Church.  Something 
stirred  uneasily  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  as  he 
dawdled  over  his  dinner  and  turned  the  pages 

of  the  Blue  Book 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  verandah  again, 
and  subsided  into  his  long  chair.  He  sat  in 
darkness,  for  he  disliked  the  night-flying  in 
sects  of  the  Tropics,  and  had  a  nervous  horror 
of  them.  Lamps  made  them  worse — brought 
them  in  thicker  shoals.  He  gazed  out  at  the 
twinkling  lights  of  the  vessels  at  anchor  in  the 
harbour.  There  were  many  ships  in  the  road 
way  to-night,  a  sight  which  would  ordinarily 
have  pleased  him,  but  his  thoughts  were  in 
sharp  contrast  now  to  his  comfortable,  con 
tented  thoughts  of  a  few  hours  ago. 
[193] 


CIVILIZATION 


II 

The  Bishop  spent  rather  a  wakeful  night, 
that  is,  until  about  two  in  the  morning,  at 
which  hour  he  settled  his  problem  and  fell 
asleep.  It  finally  resolved  itself  in  his  mind 
as  a  matter  for  him  to  let  alone.  He  could 
not  better  it,  and  had  not  the  smallest  intention 
of  making  a  martyr  of  himself,  of  resigning  his 
office,  or  of  incurring  any  of  the  other  disagree 
able  experiences  which  beset  the  path  of  the 
moral  crusader.  ]STo,  he  could  do  nothing,  for 
at  two  o'clock,  as  we  have  said,  he  had  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  the  evil — if  such  it  could 
be  called,  since  there  was  considerable  doubt 
on  the  subject — had  reached  a  magnitude 
which  no  single  individual  could  deal  with, 
Whereupon  he  wisely  dismissed  the  matter 
from  his  mind.  Not  having  gone  to  sleep  till 
late  he  was  considerably  annoyed  when  his 
China-boy  arrived  at  six  with  his  early  tea. 
This  sense  of  irritation  still  clung  to  him  when 
an  hour  later  he  sat  down  on  the  verandah 
facing  the  harbour  and  began  his  breakfast. 
Even  after  ten  years  in  the  Tropics,  the 
Bishop  still  continued  to  enjoy  bacon  and  eggs 
[194]  ' 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


with  unabated  relish,  and  these  did  something, 
this  morning,  to  mitigate  his  ill  humour.  A 
fresh  papaya,  with  a  dozen  seeds  left  in  as 
flavouring,  also  helped.  Finally  the  boy  came 
in  and  laid  letters  by  his  plate.  Home  let 
ters,  bearing  the  familiar  postmarks,  so  dear 
to  dwellers  in  outlying  parts  of  the  world.  A 
small  Malay  kriss,  with  a  handle  of  ivory  and 
silver  and  a  blade  of  five  waves  served  as  letter 
opener.  The  Bishop  slit  each  envelope  care 
fully,  and  laid  the  pile  back  on  the  table,  to 
be  read  slowly,  with  full  enjoyment.  One  by 
one  he  went  through  them,  smiling  a  little,  or 
frowning,  as  it  happened.  The  mail  from 
Home  was  early  this  week — evidently  it  had 
come  in  last  evening,  although  he  had  not  seen 
the  steamer  in  the  roads.  All  the  better — all 
the  more  of  a  surprise. 

He  stopped  suddenly,  anxiously,  and  an 
open  letter  in  his  hand  trembled  violently.  He 
finished  it  hurriedly,  went  through  it  a  second 
time,  and  again  once  more  before  he  could 
acknowledge  its  meaning. 

"My  DEAR  BROTHER,"  [it  foggan,  with  a  for 
mality  about  the  opening  that  boded  trouble], 
"I  write  to  you  in  great  distress,  but  sure  that 
[195] 


CIVILIZATION 


you  will  respond  to  the  great  demand  I  am 
about  to  make  upon  you,  upon  all  the  kindness 
which  you  have  shown  us  for  these  many  years. 
Herbert,  your  namesake,  is  in  deep  trouble — 
disgrace,  I  might  better  say.  Never  mind  the 
details.  They  are  sufficiently  serious,  suffi 
ciently  humiliating.  We  have  managed  to 
cover  it  up,  to  conceal  what  we  can,  but  for 
the  present  at  least,  or  until  this  blows  over,  it 
is  impossible  for  him  to  remain  at  home.  It 
has  all  come  about  so  suddenly,  so  unexpect 
edly,  that  there  has  been  no  time  to  write  to 
you  to  obtain  your  consent.  But  he  must 
leave  home  at  once,  and  there  is  no  one  to  whom 
we  can  send  him  except  yourself.  In  his  pres 
ent  position,  feeling  the  deep  dishonour  that 
he  has  brought  upon  himself,  upon  all  of  us 
in  fact,  we  do  not  dare  to  send  him  forth  into 
the  world  alone.  Therefore,  without  delay, 
we  are  sending  him  to  you,  feeling  sure  of  your 
response.  Under  your  guidance  and  care, 
with  the  inestimable  benefits  that  he  will  de 
rive  through  the  association  with  such  a  man 
as  yourself,  we  hope  that  he  will  recover  his 
normal  balance.  Take  him  in,  do  what  you 
can  for  him  for  all  our  sakes.  He  has  always 
been  devoted  to  you,  although  it  was  a  lad's  de 
votion — you  have  not  seen  him  for  several 
years,  and  he  is  now  twenty.  Put  him  to 
work,  do  whatever  you  think  best  for  him ;  we 

[196] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


give  him  entirely  into  your  hands.  We  turn 
to  you  in  this  hour  of  our  distress,  knowing 
that  you  will  not  fail  us. 

"Such  is  the  urgency,  that  he  is  going  out 
to  you  on  the  boat  that  carries  this  letter.  Fail 
ing  that,  he  will  leave  in  any  event  on  the  boat 
of  the  following  week.  We  regret  that  there 
has  not  been  sufficient  time  to  prepare  you. 
He  will  be  no  expense,  being  well  provided 
with  funds,  although  in  future  I  shall  make 
out  his  remittances  in  your  name.  In  haste, 
in  grief,  and  with  all  love, 

"Your  affectionate  brother, 

"ALLAN." 

The  Bishop  sat  thunderstruck  in  his  chair, 
aghast  at  his  predicament.  Here  was  a  pretty 
situation!  A  scapegrace  nephew,  who  had 
done  heavens  knew  what  dishonourable  thing 
— the  Bishop  thought  of  a  dozen  things  all  at 
once,  all  equally  disgraceful  and  equally  prob 
able, — was  about  to  be  quartered  upon  him,  in 
his  peaceful,  ordered,  carefree  life,  for  an  in 
definite  period!  Really,  it  was  intolerable. 
What  did  he,  the  Bishop,  know  of  young  men 
and  their  difficulties?  Who  was  he  to  guide 
the  footsteps  of  an  erring  one?  What  prac 
tical  experience  had  he  in  such  matters — it  was 
[197] 


CIVILIZATION 


one  thing  to  expound  certain  niceties  of  theo 
logical  doctrine,  which,  after  all,  had  little  bear 
ing  on  daily  life — and  quite  another  to  become 
guardian  and  preceptor  to  a  young  scamp. 
For  he  was  a  scamp,  obviously.  And  of  all 
places  in  the  world,  to  send  a  weak,  undisci 
plined  person  out  to  the  Colony — this  rather 
notorious  Colony  where  even  those  of  the  high 
est  principles  had  some  difficulty  in  holding  to 
the  path.  It  was  obvious  that  the  place  for 
this  young  man  was  in  his  home — in  the  home 
of  his  father  and  mother,  who  while  they  had 
doubtless  spoiled  him,  must  nevertheless  re 
tain  a  certain  influence.  He  needed  all  the 
kindness  and  loving  care  that  a  home  could 
give.  The  Bishop  sought  refuge  in  platitudes, 
for  of  such  consisted  his  daily  thoughts,  run 
ning  through  his  brain  in  certain  well  defined, 
well  worn  brain  paths.  Then  a  wave  of  indig 
nation  passed  over  him  concerning  his  brother 
— the  selfishness  of  turning  his  son  out,  at  this 
time  of  all  times!  Of  shirking  responsibility 
towards  him,  of  turning  that  responsibility 
over  to  another!  To  another  whom  he  had 
not  even  consulted!  All  his  life  his  brother 
had  had  what  he  wanted — riches,  a  beautiful 
[198] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


home,  an  easy  life.  Yet  at  the  first  breath  of 
trouble  he  evaded  his  responsibilities  and 
dumped  them  upon  another! 

The  Bishop  worked  himself  up  into  a  fine 
fury,  seeing  his  future  plans  upset,  his  easy 
going  life  diverted  from  its  normal,  flowing 
course  by  the  advent  of  this  scapegrace 
nephew.  His  eyes  rested  once  more  upon  the 
letter:  "He  is  going  out  to  you  on  the  boat 
that  carries  this  letter."  If  so,  then  he  must 
have  aleady  landed  and  would  appear  at  any 
moment.  For  the  mailboat  must  have  come 
in  last  night,  and  the  passengers  had  either 
been  put  ashore  last  evening,  or  had  been  put 
ashore  at  sunrise,  supposing  the  boat  remained 
discharging  cargo  all  night.  It  was  now  eight 
o'clock.  The  youth  should  have  been  here. 
Apparently,  then,  he  had  failed  to  catch  this 
boat,  and  was  coming  the  following  week. 
But  the  Bishop  was  troubled;  he  must  go  into 
town  and  make  sure.  Since  he  was  to  be  bur 
dened  with  the  rascal  for  a  week  (but  only  for 
a  week,  he  would  send  him  packing  home  by 
the  next  boat,  he  promised  himself)  his  sense 
of  duty  prompted  him  to  act  at  once.  He 
[199] 


CIVILIZATION 


raised  his  fine,  thin  hands  and  clapped  them 
together  smartly. 

"Rickshaw!  Quickly!"  he  ordered  the 
China-boy  who  appeared  in  answer  to  his  sum 
mons.  A  few  minutes  later  he  descended  the 
broad  steps  of  the  verandah  and  entered  his 
neat,  black  rickshaw,  with  highly  polished 
brasses,  drawn  by  two  boys  in  immaculate 
white  livery.  The  Bishop  kept  no  carriage — 
that  would  have  seemed  ostentatious — but  his 
smart,  black  rickshaw  was  to  be  seen  all  over 
town,  stopping  before  houses  of  high  and  low 
degree,  but  mostly  high. 

He  reached  the  quais  after  a  sharp  run,  pass 
ing  the  godowns  filled  with  rubber,  which  gave 
forth  its  peculiar,  permeating  odour  upon  the 
heavy,  stagnant  air  of  the  harbourside.  No, 
the  mailboat  had  gone  on,  had  weighed  anchor 
early  in  the  morning,  at  sunrise,  they  told  him, 
and  had  continued  on  her  way  up  the  coast. 
No  such  passenger  as  he  described  had  been 
landed — no  one  by  that  name.  The  Bishop, 
leaning  upon  the  worn  counter  in  the  dingy 
shipping  office,  scrutinised  the  passenger  list 
carefully.  There  was  a  name  there,  certainly, 
that  suggested  his  nephew's,  but  with  two  or 
[200] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


three  wrong  letters.  Not  enough  for  a  posi 
tive  identification,  but  perhaps  done  purposely, 
as  a  disguise.  Could  the  youth  have  deliber 
ately  done  this?  It  was  possible.  When 
pressed  for  a  description,  the  Bishop  was  most 
hazy.  He  could  only  say  that  he  was  search 
ing  for  a  young  man,  about  twenty.  The 
agent  told  him  that  twenty  young  men,  about 
twenty,  had  come  ashore.  The  Bishop  was 
not  quite  satisfied,  was  vaguely  uneasy,  but 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  However, 
when  the  day  passed  and  no  nephew  appeared, 
he  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  He  was  safe 
for  another  week.  Had  a  week  before  him  in 
which  to  formulate  his  plans.  And  he  would 
formulate  them  too,  he  promised  himself,  and 
would  put  the  responsibility  of  this  irresponsi 
ble  young  creature  back  upon  the  shoulders 
where  it  belonged.  It  was  a  great  temptation 
not  to  return  to  the  shipping  office  again  and 
engage  a  berth  on  the  next  homeward  bound 
liner,  but  on  second  thought,  he  determined 
not  to  do  so.  Above  all  things  he  prided  him 
self  on  being  just  and  liberal.  He  would  give 
his  nephew  a  week's  trial  in  the  Colony,  after 
which  the  letter  returning  him  to  his  father 
[201] 


CIVILIZATION 


would  bear  the  air  of  resigned  but  seasoned 
judgment,  rather  than  the  unreasoning  im 
pulse  of  a  moment's  irritation.  A  week's 
guardianship,  and — well,  so  it  should  be. 
Nothing  longer,  no  greater  incursion  into  his 
smooth,  harmonious  existence. 

The  week  of  anticipation  passed  slowly. 
After  the  first  shock  was  over,  after  the  first 
sense  of  imposition  had  passed  away,  and  he 
found  himself  with  a  week  for  consideration, 
he  became  more  decided  than  ever  on  his  course 
of  action.  Mentally,  he  began  many  letters 
to  his  brother,  usually  beginning,  "I  regret  ex 
ceedingly,"  from  which  beginning  he  launched 
out  into  well  balanced,  well  phrased  excuses,  of 
admirable  logic,  by  means  of  which  he  proved 
the  imperative  necessity  of  finding  other 
anchorage  for  this  stray  and  apparently  very 
frail  bark.  Of  necessity  these  letters  were 
vague,  since  he  did  not  know  what  particular 
form  of  frailty  he  had  to  contend  with.  Of 
one  thing,  however,  he  was  sure — the  Colony 
offered  opportunities  for  the  indulgence  of 
every  form  known  to  man,  with  none  of  those 
nice  restrictions  wrhich  are  thrown  round  such 
opportunities  in  more  civilized  parts  of  the 
[202] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


globe.  He  would  explain  all  this  at  length,  as 
soon  as  he  knew  upon  which  points  to  concen 
trate  his  argument.  But,  take  it  by  and  large, 
there  were  no  safeguards  of  any  sort,  and  only 
the  strongest  and  most  upright  could  walk 
uprightly  amidst  such  perils. 

The  coming  of  the  next  liner  was  awaited 
with  much  anxiety.  The  Bishop  had  gone  so 
far  as  to  confide  to  a  few  friends  that  a  young 
nephew  would  arrive  with  her,  for  a  week's 
stay — on  his  way  elsewhere.  He  remembered 
the  boy,  his  namesake.  Rather  a  handsome 
little  chap  as  he  recalled  him — perhaps  under 
more  auspicious  circumstances  it  might  have 
been  a  pleasure  to  have  had  a  visit  from  him. 
But  this  suddenly  becoming  endowed  with  him 
for  weeks  or  months — it  might  be  years,  per 
haps — quite  another  matter. 

When  the  mailboat  arrived  one  afternoon, 
the  Bishop's  rickshaw  stood  at  the  jetty,  while 
the  Bishop  himself,  in  his  immaculate  gaiters, 
with  his  sash  blowing  in  the  soft  wind,  stood  at 
the  end  of  the  jetty  anxiously  regarding  the 
tender  making  its  way  inshore.  She  was 
crowded  with  a  miscellaneous  throng  of  pas 
sengers,  among  whom  were  many  young  men, 
[203] 


CIVILIZATION 


all  strange,  new,  expectant  young  men  com 
ing  out  for  the  first  time,  but  among  them  he 
saw  no  face  that  resembled  the  one  he  was 
searching  for.  Which  might  possibly  be,  he 
reflected,  since  the  face,  as  he  recalled  it  at  the 
time  of  their  last  meeting  many  years  ago,  was 
very  childish  and  immature.  The  tender  made 
fast  to  the  steps,  and  amidst  much  luggage, 
much  scrambling  of  coolies  and  general  dis 
order,  the  passengers  came  off,  The  Bishop 
standing  on  the  steps  scrutinised  each  one  care 
fully.  Not  there.  Nor  was  there  a  second 
trip  to  the  liner,  since  the  tender  had  fetched 
ashore  all  who  were  to  disembark  at  that  port. 
The  Bishop  turned  away  with  mingled  feel 
ings,  part  relief,  part  indignation.  Another 
week  of  suspense  to  be  gone  through  with,  and 
after  that,  another  week  before  he  could  re 
lease  himself  of  his  burden.  It  was  all  exceed 
ingly  trying  and  unreasonable — the  feeling  of 
irritation  against  his  brother  mounted  higher 
— it  was  outrageous,  keeping  him  upset  this 
way. 

Then  a  thought  suddenly  came  into  his  mind. 
That  name  on  the  passenger  list  a  week  ago, 
the  name  slightly  different  yet  curiously  alike 
[204] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


— could  it  have  been  altered  slightly  on  pur 
pose?  Ashamed  to  face  him,  ashamed  to  come 
to  him?  Bundled  off  in  disgrace  from  home, 
willy-nilly,  and  now  here, — hiding? 

A  wave  of  sick  apprehension  came  over 
the  Bishop.  Agonising  fear.  He  must  see 
Walker  at  once.  Walker,  his  old  friend,  who 
would  k  LOW  what  to  do,  what  to  advise.  If 
only  he  were  in  town. 

Walker  was  in  town  as  it  happened,  and  the 
Bishop  found  him  at  his  hotel,  and  poured  out 
to  him  all  his  wretched  anxieties,  the  whole 
miserable  business,  not  sparing  himself  in  de 
scribing  his  attitude  of  unwelcome  and  unwill 
ingness  to  receive  the  boy,  and  concluding  with 
his  sick  fears  concerning  his  safety.  Walker 
listened  gravely  and  attentively,  and  was  trou 
bled.  It  was  very  possible  indeed — more  than 
possible.  A  search  must  be  begun  at  once. 
Fortunately,  in  that  small  community,  it  was 
not  easy  for  a  foreigner  to  disappear,  and  a 
stranger  could  not  go  inland,  into  the  interior, 
undetected.  Therefore,  if  he  was  here  at  all, 
he  would  soon  be  found — somewhere.  He 
would  set  in  motion  the  machinery  immedi 
ately.  First  the  hotels ;  that  was  easy.  Then 
[205] 


CIVILIZATION 


the  other  places.  It  would  doubtless  be  neces 
sary  to  call  in  the  police. 

The  Bishop  begged  for  secrecy — no  pub 
licity.  Walker  promised.  That,  too,  would 
be  easy.  Leave  it  to  him.  The  Bishop  might 
rest  easy  on  that  score — no  publicity.  Walker 
would  do  everything  himself,  as  far  as  possi 
ble.  Only,  he  might  have  to  send  for  the 
Bishop,  if  it  became  necessary,  to  identify 

Two  nights  later,  the  Bishop  was  reclining 
on  the  long  chair  on  his  verandah,  while  over 
head  the  heavy  punkah  fans  swayed  to  and  fro, 
stirring  the  moist,  warm  air.  Out  in  the  har 
bour  the  lights  gleamed  fitfully,  the  lanterns  on 
the  bobbing  sampans  contrasting  with  the 
steadier  beams  of  the  big  ships  anchored  in  the 
roadway.  The  ships  of  the  Orient,  congregated 
from  the  Seven  Seas,  full  of  the  mystery  and 
romance  of  the  East.  He  had  left  it  to  Walk 
er — as  he  had  been  told.  In  the  darkness, 
with  one  hand  clasped  behind  his  head  and  the 
other  holding  a  glowing  cigar,  he  contemplated 
the  scene,  his  favourite  hour  of  the  day.  Each 
moment  another  and  another  light  flitted  across 
the  heavy  blackness,  showing  red  or  green, 
while  the  lights  on  the  moving  sampans  darted 
[206] 


CANTERBURY   CHIMES 


back  and  forth  in  the  darkness,  restless  and 
alert.  He  had  left  it  to  Walker.  He  had 
stopped  thinking  of  his  impending  nephew  for 
a  few  moments,  and  his  mind  had  relaxed,  as 
the  mind  relaxes  when  an  evil  has  been  post 
poned  from  time  to  time,  and  normal  feeling 
reasserts  itself  after  the  reprieve.  There  was  a 
quiet  footfall  on  the  verandah,  and  the  Bishop 
was  aroused  from  his  meditations.  His  Chi 
nese  servant  approached  deferentially.  "Man 
want  see  Master,"  he  explained  laconically, 
with  the  imperturbability  of  the  East. 

"What  like  man?"  enquired  the  Bishop,  in 
pidgin  English.  "China  man,"  came  the  re 
sponse.  "Must  see  Master.  All  belong  velly 
important." 

A  quick  foreboding  possessed  the  Bishop, 
even  in  this  hour  of  his  tranquillity. 

"Show  him  here,"  he  replied,  after  a  second's 
consideration.  A  tall  figure  appeared  before 
him,  bowing.  A  lean,  very  dirty  Chinese,  who 
bowed  repeatedly.  In  spite  of  the  Oriental 
repression  of  feeling,  it  was  plain  that  he  was 
troubled.  He  extended  a  lean,  claw-like  hand, 
with  a  long  and  very  dirty  nail  on  the  little 
finger,  and  offered  a  soiled  letter  to  the  Bishop. 
[207] 


CIVILIZATION 


"Velly  important.  All  belong  much  tlou- 
ble,"  he  explained,  and  tucked  his  hands  well 
inside  his  long  blue  sleeves,  and  stood  by  im 
passively,  while  the  Bishop  received  the  letter, 
crumpled  and  soiled,  as  if  carried  for  a  long 
time  in  a  pocket.  He  turned  it  over  and 
found  it  addressed  to  himself.  There  was  no 
stamp.  The  handwriting  was  Walker's.  The 
Bishop  started  erect  in  his  long  chair,  and  then 
sprang  up,  straddling  it  as  usual. 

"Where  get  this?"  he  asked  excitedly.  The 
impassive  Chinese  bowed  once  more. 

"Say  come  quick.  Letter  velly  important. 
Letter  belong  you.  No  police.  My  savee 
you  want  letter  now."  He  backed  away,  still 
bowing.  With  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  indp 
cated  the  dark  night  outside. 

"You  come  quick,"  he  repeated,  "or  call  po 
lice."  By  the  light  of  a  lamp  which  his  obse 
quious  but  curious  Chinese  servant  carried  in, 
the  Bishop  tore  open  Walker's  letter,  read  it, 
then  crushed  it  hurriedly  into  his  pocket. 

"Come    quick,"    reiterated    the    unknown 

Chinese,  "I  got  lickshaw."     The  Bishop  strode 

forward  across  the  verandah,  snatching  at  his 

hat  as  he  went,  and  then  hastened  across  the 

[208] 


CANTERBURY   CHIMES 


lawn  with  hurried  steps,  followed  by  the  Chi 
nese  pacing  rapidly  behind  him.  Two  rick 
shaws  were  waiting  under  the  street  lamp,  two 
shabby  rickshaws.  Yet  somehow,  the  Bishop 
did  not  care  for  his  own  private  conveyance  at 
this  moment,  did  not  wish  the  sharp,  inquisi 
tive  eyes  of  his  runners  to  follow  him  just  then. 
He  mounted  hastily,  and  the  coolies  started  off 
with  a  will,  the  Chinese  leading  the  way. 
Even  in  that  moment  of  anxiety,  the  Bishop 
was  aware  that  the  Chinese  was  leading  the 
way,  was  conscious  that  the  place  of  honour 
was  not  his — for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  his 
vehicle  followed,  second  place,  a  rickshaw  that 
carried  a  Chinese. 

The  distance  seemed  interminable.  Fortu 
nately,  at  that  hour  few  of  his  acquaintances 
were  abroad,  but  in  the  anxiety  which  pos 
sessed  him,  he  scarcely  realised  it.  He  was 
conscious  of  passing  through  crowded  streets, 
the  quarter  of  the  Mohammedans,  where  in 
cense  pots  were  alight,  scenting  the  warm  air. 
Then  the  vile-smelling  bazaar,  crowded  with 
buyers,  bargaining  and  shouting  under  the 
swaying  torches.  Then  they  passed  the  Euro 
pean  section  of  the  town,  where  the  streets 
[209] 


CIVILIZATION 


were  wide,  clean  and  deserted.  They  must 
be  going  back  of  the  quais  now,  for  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  acrid  scent  of  rubber.  Then 
they  turned  into  a  narrow,  wildly  tumultuous 
street  full  of  Chinese,  scattered  all  over  the 
road  and  sidewalk,  shouting,  calling,  beating 
drums,  yelling  wares  for  sale,  the  babel  of  the 
Chinese  quarter,  only  such  as  the  Bishop  had 
never  seen  it.  The  rickshaws  turned  many 
times,  up  narrow  lanes  and  alleys,  across  wider 
thoroughfares,  and  finally  halted  before  a 
dingy  house  of  many  storeys,  a  foreign-style 
house,  converted  to  native  uses.  They  stopped 
before  a  red  painted  door,  a  double  door,  in 
two  halves,  like  a  saloon  door.  Over  the  en 
trance  hung  a  sign,  black  and  white,  in  large, 
sprawling  Chinese  characters.  Subconscious 
ly,  he  was  aware  that  he  had  passed  such  signs, 
in  such  characters,  many  times  before.  A 
curious  and  large  crowd  gathered  before  the 
house  parted  at  their  approach,  and  the  filthy 
Chinese  led  the  way,  followed  by  the  Bishop  in 
his  immaculate  garb.  As  they  passed  in  and 
the  swing  doors  closed  behind  them,  a  throng 
of  yellow  faces  peered  down  and  looked  under 
the  door,  which  was  hung  high.  And  all  the 
[210] 


CANTERBURY   CHIMES 


while,  the  low,  insistent  shuffling  noises  of  the 
crowd  outside  penetrated  into  the  dark,  dimly 
lit  room  in  which  the  Bishop  and  his  compan 
ion  found  themselves. 

Around  three  sides  of  this  room,  which  was 
narrow,  ran  a  wide  bench  covered  with  dirty 
matting.  Lying  at  intervals  in  pairs  all  along 
the  bench,  were  two  coolies  in  a  little  pen,  with 
a  lamp  between  them,  separated  by  a  narrow 
ridge  from  the  pen  adjoining,  which  held  two 
more  ragged  smokers.  The  Bishop  beheld 
rows  of  them,  haggard,  pallid  rows.  A  horn 
lantern  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  and 
the  air  was  unstirred  by  punkah,  the  heavy, 
foul  air  reeking  with  the  sickening,  pungent 
fumes  of  opium.  As  he  passed,  the  smokers 
raised  themselves  on  their  elbows  and  gazed  at 
him  with  glazed,  dull  eyes.  The  sight  of  a 
Bishop  in  a  low  class  opium  den  was  unusual, 
and  the  dimmed  brains  of  the  smokers  dimly 
recognised  the  distraction.  Then,  as  he  moved 
on,  they  sank  down  again  upon  their  wooden 
pillows,  and  with  slow,  infinite  pains,  set  them 
selves  to  roll  their  bits  of  opium,  to  cook  it  over 
the  dim  lamps  that  dotted  the  murky  atmos- 
[211] 


CIVILIZATION 


phere  with  glints  of  light,  and  to  resume  their 
occupations. 

At  the  back  of  the  room,  the  proprietor 
paused  before  a  part  of  the  bench  where  the 
pen  was  occupied  by  one  smoker  only,  a  for 
eigner.  The  foreigner  lay  stretched  out  in  an 
awkward  attitude,  knees  drawn  up,  his  head 
sliding  off  the  wooden  block,  most  uncom 
fortable.  A  candle  was  thrust  into  the 
Bishop's  unsteady  hand. 

"Looksee,"  whispered  a  voice.  The  Bishop 
looked.  "All  lite?"  questioned  the  anxious 
voice  of  the  proprietor,  "Die  lil'  while  ago. 
No  can  smoke  like  China  boys.  No  can  do." 

The  Bishop  continued  to  look  at  the  beauti 
ful,  disdainful  head  of  the  young  foreigner, 
sliding  limply  off  its  wooden  pillow. 

"All  lite?"  continued  the  whining  voice  in 
sistently.  "My  got  money.  Have  got  watch. 
No  steal."  A  skinny  hand  with  filthy  finger 
nails  crept  forth  and  thrust  itself  into  the 
pockets  of  the  limp  waistcoat,  crumpled  so  piti 
fully  upon  the  thin,  young  figure,  and  pres 
ently  a  gold  watch  was  drawn  forth.  The 
watch  was  slowly  waved  before  the  Bishop's 
eyes,  and  the  case  snapped  open,  so  that  he 
[212] 


CANTERBURY    CHIMES 


could  read  the  name  engraved  within.  After 
which  the  Bishop  continued  to  gaze  fixedly 
upon  the  dead  youth,  lying  disgraced  upon  a 
bench  in  one  of  the  lowest  opium  dives  in  the 
Colony. 

"Smoke  here  week,"  went  on  the  insistent 
voice  of  the  proprietor,  "all  time  smoke.  No 
go  out.  No  eat.  Smoke  all  same  China-boy. 
No  same  China-boy.  No  can  do." 

There  was  a  slight  movement  at  the  back  of 
the  room,  and  an  object  was  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  and  finally  held  for  inspection  under 
the  Bishop's  nose.  In  a  grimy  frame,  pro 
tected  by  a  square  of  fly-brown  glass,  was  a 
square,  official-looking  bit  of  paper.  Of  value 
evidently,  since  much  care  had  been  taken  to 
preserve  it. 

"License,"  went  on  the  explanatory  voice. 
"Gov'ment  license.  All  samee  Gov'ment  li 
cense.  Pay  heap  money.  No  can  help  if 
man  die.  Plenty  China-boy  die  too.  This 
velly  lespectable  place." 

The   Bishop    recalled   himself   as    from    a 

dream.     During   the    few   moments    he    had 

spent  looking  down  upon  the  huddled  figure, 

he    seemed    to    have    grown    older,    to    have 

[213] 


CIVILIZATION 


shrunken  down,  to  have  lost  something  of  his 
fine,  arrogant  bearing  and  conscious  superi 
ority. 

"All  lite?"  whined  the  voice  insistently.  "All 
lite?"  "Yes,"  said  the  Bishop  shortly,  "it's 
all  right."  He  strode  rapidly  through  the 
foul  room,  through  the  heavy,  tainted,  pun 
gent  air.  Outside,  the  dense  crowd  pressed 
closely  about  the  swinging  doors  scattered 
widely  as  he  approached.  Two  policemen 
were  coming  down  the  street,  attracted  by  the 
excitement  of  the  crowd.  The  Bishop  got  into 
a  rickshaw  and  drove  homewards.  A  heavy 
weight  seemed  to  have  been  lifted  from  his 
mind.  Through  the  oppressive,  hot  night  air 
the  Canterbury  chimes  pealed  their  mellow 
notes. 

"Thank  God,"  said  the  Bishop  fervently, 
"it  was  not  my  nephew." 


[214] 


UNDER  A  WINEGLASS 


VIII 

UNDER  A  WINEGLASS 

A  LITTLE  coasting  steamer  dropped  anchor 
at  dawn  at  the  mouth  of  Chant a-Boun  creek, 
and  through  the  long,  hot  hours  she  lay  there, 
gently  stirring  with  the  sluggish  tide,  waiting 
for  the  passage- junk  to  come  down  from 
Chanta-Boun  town,  twelve  miles  further  up 
the  river.  It  was  stifling  hot  on  the  steamer, 
and  from  side  to  side,  whichever  side  one 
walked  to,  came  no  breeze  at  all.  Only  the 
warm,  enveloping,  moist  heat  closed  down, 
stifling.  Very  quiet  it  was,  with  no  noises  or 
voices  from  the  after  deck,  where  under  the 
awning  lay  the  languid  deck  passengers,  sleep 
ing  on  their  bedding  rolls.  Very  quiet  it  was 
ashore,  so  still  and  quiet  that  one  could  hear 
the  bubbling,  sucking  noises  of  the  large  land- 
crabs,  pattering  over  the  black,  oozy  mud,  or 
the  sound  of  a  lean  pig  scratching  himself 
against  the  piles  of  a  native  hut,  the  clustered 
[217] 


CIVILIZATION 


huts,  mounted  on  stilts,  of  the  village  at  the 
mouth  of  the  creek. 

The  Captain  came  down  from  the  narrow 
bridge  into  the  narrow  saloon.  He  was  clad 
in  yellow  pajamas,  his  bare  feet  in  native  san 
dals,  and  held  a  well  pipeclayed  topee  in  one 
hand.  Impatient  he  was  at  the  delay  of  the 
passage- junk  coming  down  from  up-river, 
with  her  possible  trifling  cargo,  and  possible 
trifling  deck-passengers,  of  which  the  little 
steamer  already  carried  enough. 

"This  long  wait — it  is  very  annoying,"  he 
commented,  sitting  upon  the  worn  leather 
cushions  of  the  saloon  bench.  "And  I  had 
wished  for  time  enough  to  stop  to  see  the  lonely 
man.  I  have  made  good  time  on  this  trip — all 
things  considered.  With  time  to  spare,  to 
make  that  call,  out  of  our  way.  And  now  the 
good  hours  go  by,  while  we  wait  here,  use 
lessly." 

"The  lonely  man?"  asked  the  passenger,  who 
was  not  a  deck-passenger.  He  was  the  only 
saloon  passenger,  and  because  of  that,  he  slept 
first  in  one,  then  in  the  other  of  the  two  small 
cabins,  alternating  according  to  which  side  the 
wind  blew  from. 

[218] 


UNDER   A   WINEGLASS 


"You  would  not  mind,  perhaps,"  continued 
the  Captain,  "if,  after  all — in  spite  of  this 
long  delay — we  still  found  time  for  the  lonely 
man?  An  unscheduled  call,  much  out  of  our 
way — oh,  a  day's  sail  from  here,  and  we,  as 
you  know,  go  slowly " 

"Three  days  from  now — four  days  from 
now — it  matters  little  to  me  when  we  reach 
Bangkok,"  said  the  passenger  largely,  "but 
tell  me  of  this  man." 

Upon  the  sideboard,  under  an  inverted 
wineglass,  sat  a  small  gilt  Buddha,  placed 
there  by  the  China-boys.  The  Captain  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  Buddha. 

"Like  that.  Immovable  and  covered  in 
close,  sitting  still  in  a  small  space.  Covered 
in.  Some  one  turned  a  wineglass  over  on  him, 
long  ago,  and  now  he  sits,  still  and  immovable 
like  that.  It  makes  my  heart  ache." 

"Tell  me.     While  we  are  waiting." 

"Three  years  ago,"  began  the  Captain 
dreamily,  still  looking  at  the  tiny  gilt  Buddha 
in  its  inverted  wineglass,  "he  came  aboard. 
Bound  for  nowhere  in  particular — to  Bang 
kok,  perhaps,  since  we  were  going  that  way.  Or 
to  any  other  port  he  fancied  along  the  coast, 
[219] 


CIVILIZATION 


since  we  were  stopping  all  along  the  coast.  He 
wanted  to  lose  himself,  he  said.  And,  as  you 
have  seen,  we  stop  at  many  remote,  lonely  vil 
lages,  such  as  this  one.  And  we  have  seen 
many  lonely  men,  foreigners,  isolated  in  vil 
lages  such  as  this  one,  unknown,  removed,  for 
gotten.  But  none  of  them  suited  him.  He 
had  been  looking  for  the  proper  spot  for  many 
years.  Wandering  up  and  down  the  coast,  in 
cargo-boats,  in  little  coasting  vessels,  in  sailing 
vessels,  sometimes  in  native  j'uiks,  stopping 
here  and  there,  looking  for  a  place  where  he 
could  go  off  and  live  by  himself.  He  wanted 
to  be  quite,  absolutely,  to  himself.  He  said  he 
should  know  the  place  immediately,  if  he  saw 
it — recognise  it  at  once.  He  said  he  could 
find  himself  if  he  could  get  quite  absolutely 
away.  Find  himself,  that  is,  recover  him 
self — something,  a  part  of  him  which  he  had 
lost.  Just  temporarily  lost.  He  was  very 
wistful  and  very  eager,  and  said  I  must  not 
think  him  a  fool,  or  demented.  He  said  he 
only  wanted  to  be  by  himself,  in  the  right  spot, 
to  accomplish  his  purpose.  He  would  accom 
plish  his  purpose  and  then  return. 

"Can  you  see  him,  the  lonely  man,  obsessed, 
[220] 


UNDER   A    WINEGLASS 


going  up  and  down  the  China  Coast,  shipping 
at  distant  ports,  one  after  another,  on  fruit 
less  quests,  looking  for  a  place  to  disembark. 
The  proper  place  to  disembark,  the  place  which 
he  should  recognise,  should  know  for  his  own 
place,  which  would  answer  the  longing  in  him 
which  had  sent  him  searching  round  the  world, 
over  the  Seven  Seas  of  the  world.  The  spot 
in  which  he  could  find  himself  again  and  regain 
what  he  had  lost. 

"There  are  many  islands  hereabouts,"  went 
on  the  Captain.  "Hundreds.  Desert.  He 
thought  one  would  suit  him.  So  I  put  him 
down  on  one,  going  out  of  my  way  to  find  it 
for  him.  He  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  bridge, 
and  said  to  me  'We  are  getting  nearer.'  Then 
he  said  that  he  saw  it.  So  I  stopped  the  ship 
and  put  him  down.  He  was  very  grateful. 
He  said  he  liked  to  be  in  the  Gulf  of  Siam. 
That  the  name  had  a  picturesque  sound,  the 
Pirate  Islands.  He  would  live  all  by  himself 
on  one  of  the  Pirate  Islands,  in  the  Gulf  of 
Siam.  Isolated  and  remote,  but  over  one  way 
was  the  coast  of  Indo-China,  and  over  the 
other  way  was  the  coast  of  Malay.  Neigh 
bourly,  but  not  too  near.  He  should  always 
[221] 


CIVILIZATION 


feel  that  he  could  get  away  when  he  was  ready, 
what  with  so  much  traffic  through  the  Gulf, 
and  the  native  boats  now  and  then.  He  was 
mistaken  about  the  traffic,  but  I  did  not  tell 
him  so.  I  knew  where  he  was  and  could  watch 
him.  I  placed  a  cross  on  the  chart,  on  his 
island,  so  that  I  might  know  where  I  had  left 
him.  And  I  promised  myself  to  call  upon 
him,  from  time  to  time — to  see  when  he  should 
be  ready  to  face  the  world  again." 

The  Captain  spread  a  chart  upon  the  table. 

"Six  degrees  north  latitude,"  he  remarked, 
"Ten  thousand  miles  from " 

"Greenwich,"  supplied  the  passenger,  anx 
ious  to  show  that  he  knew. 

"From  Her,"  corrected  the  Captain. 

"He  told  me  about  her  a  little.  I  added  the 
rest,  from  what  he  omitted.  It  all  happened 
quite  a  long  time  ago,  which  was  the  bother  of 
it.  And  because  it  had  taken  place  so  long 
ago,  and  had  endured  for  so  long  a  time,  it 
made  it  more  difficult  for  him  to  recover  him 
self  again.  Do  you  think  people  ever  recover 
themselves  again?  When  the  precious  thing 
in  them,  the  spirit  of  them,  has  been  overlaid 
[222] 


UNDER  A   WINEGLASS 


and    overlaid,    covered    deep    with    artificial 

layers ? 

"The  marvel  was  that  he  wanted  to  regain 
it — wanted  to  break  through.  Most  don't. 
The  other  thing  is  so  easy.  Money — of  course. 
She  had  it,  and  he  loved  her.  He  had  none, 
and  she  loved  him.  She  had  had  money  al 
ways,  had  lived  with  it,  lived  on  it,  it  got  into 
her  very  bones.  And  he  had  not  two  shillings 
to  rub  together,  but  he  possessed  the  gift — 
genius.  But  they  met  somewhere,  and  fell  in 
love  with  each  other,  and  that  ended  him.  She 
took  him,  you  see,  and  gave  him  all  she  had. 
It  was  marvellous  to  do  it,  for  she  loved  him 
so.  Took  him  from  his  four  shilling  attic  into 
luxury.  Out  of  his  shabby,  poor,  worn  clothes 
into  the  best  there  were.  From  a  penny  'bus 
into  superb  motors.  With  all  the  rest  of  it 
to  match.  And  he  accepted  it  all  because  he 
loved  her,  and  it  was  the  easiest  way.  Besides, 
just  before  she  had  come  into  his  life,  he  had 
written — well,  whatever  it  was — however,  they 
all  praised  him,  the  critics  and  reviewers,  and 
called  him  the  coming  man,  and  he  was  very 
happy  about  it,  and  she  seemed  to  come  into  his 
life  right  at  the  top  of  his  happiness  over  his 
[223] 


CIVILIZATION 


work.  And  sapped  it.  Didn't  mean  to,  but 
did.  Cut  his  genius  down  at  the  root.  Said  his 
beginning  fame  was  quite  enough — quite 
enough  for  her,  for  her  friends,  for  the  society 
into  which  she  took  him.  They  all  praised  him 
without  understanding  how  great  he  wras,  or 
considering  his  future.  They  took  him  at  her 
valuation,  which  was  great  enough.  But  she 
thought  he  had  achieved  the  summit.  Did  not 
know,  you  see,  that  there  was  anything  more. 

"He  was  so  sure  of  himself,  too,  during  those 
first  few  years.  Young  and  confident,  con 
scious  of  his  power.  Drifting  would  not  mat 
ter  for  a  while.  He  could  afford  to  drift. 
His  genius  would  ripen,  he  told  himself,  and 
time  was  on  his  side.  So  he  drifted,  very 
happy  and  content,  ripening.  And  being  over 
laid  all  the  time,  deeper  and  thicker,  with  this 
intangible,  transparent,  strong  wall,  hemming 
him  in,  shutting  in  the  gold,  just  like  that  little 
joss  there  under  the  wineglass. 

"She  lavished  on  him  everything,  without 
measure.  But  she  had  no  knowledge  of  him, 
really.  Just  another  toy  he  was,  the  best  of 
all,  in  her  luxurious  equipment.  So  he  trav 
elled  the  world  with  her,  and  dined  at  the  Em- 
[224] 


UNDER   A    WINEGLASS 


bassies  of  the  world,  East  and  West,  in  all  the 
capitals  of  Europe  and  of  Asia.  Getting  res 
tive  finally,  however,  as  the  years  wore  on. 
Feeling  the  wineglass,  as  it  were,  although  he 
could  not  see  it.  Looking  through  its  clear 
transparency,  but  feeling  pressed,  somehow, 
conscious  of  the  closeness.  But  he  continued 
to  sit  still,  not  much  wishing  to  move,  to 
stretch  himself. 

"Then  sounds  from  the  other  side  began  to 
filter  in,  echoing  largely  in  his  restricted  space, 
making  within  it  reverberations  that  carried 
vague  uneasiness,  producing  restlessness.  He 
shifted  himself  within  his  space,  and  grew  con 
scious  of  limitations.  From  without  came  the 
voices,  insistent,  asking  what  he  was  doing 
now?  Meaning,  what  thing  was  he  writing 
now,  for  a  long  time  had  passed  since  he  had 
written  that  which  called  forth  the  praise  of 
men.  There  came  to  him,  within  his  wine 
glass,  these  demands  from  the  outside.  There 
fore  he  grew  very  uneasy,  and  tried  to  rise, 
and  just  then  it  was  that  he  began  to  feel  how 
close  the  crystal  walls  surrounded  him.  He 
even  wanted  to  break  them,  but  a  pang  at 
[225] 


CIVILIZATION 


heart  told  him  that  was  ingratitude.  For  he 
loved  her,  you  see.  Never  forget  that. 

"Now  you  see  how  it  all  came  about.  He 
was  conscious  of  himself,  of  his  power.  And 
while  for  the  first  years  he  had  drifted,  he  was 
always  conscious  of  his  power.  Knew  that  he 
had  but  to  rise,  to  assume  gigantic  stature. 
And  then,  just  because  he  was  very  stiff,  and 
the  pain  of  stiffness  and  stretching  made  him 
uncouth,  he  grew  angry.  He  resented  his 
captivity,  chafed  at  his  being  limited  like  that, 
did  not  understand  how  it  had  come  about.  It 
had  come  about  through  love.  Through  sheer, 
sheltering  love.  The  equivalent  of  his  for  her. 
She  had  placed  a  crystal  cup  above  him,  to 
keep  him  safe.  And  he  had  sat  safe  beneath 
it  all  these  years,  fearing  to  stir,  because  she 
liked  him  so. 

"It  came  to  a  choice  at  last.  His  life  of  hap 
piness  with  her — or  his  work.  Poor  fool,  to 
have  made  the  choice  at  that  late  day.  So  he 
broke  his  wineglass,  and  his  heart  and  her  heart 
too,  and  came  away.  And  then  he  found  that 
he  could  not  work,  after  all.  Years  of  sitting 
still  had  done  it. 

"At  first  he  tried  to  recover  himself  by  going 
[226] 


UNDER  A   WINEGLASS 


over  again  the  paths  of  his  youth.  A  garret 
in  London,  a  studio  off  Montparnasse,  shabby, 
hungry — all  no  use.  He  was  done  for. 
Futile.  Done  himself  in  for  no  purpose,  for 
he  had  lost  her  too.  For  you  see  he  planned, 
when  he  left  her,  to  come  back  shortly,  crowned 
anew.  To  come  back  in  triumph,  for  she  was 
all  his  life.  Nothing  else  mattered.  He  just 
wanted  to  lay  something  at  her  feet,  in  ex 
change  for  all  she  had  given  him.  Said  he 
would.  So  they  parted,  heart-broken,  crushed, 
neither  one  understanding.  But  he  promised 
to  come  back,  with  his  laurels. 

"That  parting  was  long  ago.  He  could  not 
regain  himself.  After  his  failure  along  the 
paths  of  his  youth,  his  garrets  and  studios,  he 
tried  to  recover  his  genius  by  visiting  again 
all  the  parts  of  the  world  he  had  visited  with 
her.  Only  this  time,  humbly.  Standing  on 
the  outside  of  palaces  and  Embassies,  recol 
lecting  the  times  when  he  had  been  a  guest 
within.  Rubbing  shoulders  with  the  crowd 
outside,  shabby,  poor,  a  derelict.  Seeking 
always  to  recover  that  lost  thing. 

"And  getting  so  impatient  to  rejoin  her. 
Longing  for  her  always.  Coming  to  see  that 
[227] 


CIVILIZATION 


she  meant  more  to  him  than  all  the  world  be 
side.  Eating  his  heart  out,  craving  her. 
Longing  to  return,  to  reseat  himself  under  his 
bell.  Only  now  he  was  no  longer  gilded. 
He  must  gild  himself  anew,  bright,  just  as 
she  had  found  him.  Then  he  could  go  back. 

"But  it  could  not  be  done.  He  could  not 
work.  Somewhere  in  the  world,  he  told  me, 
was  a  spot  where  he  could  work.  Where  there 
were  no  memories.  Somewhere  in  the  Seven 
Seas  lay  the  place.  He  should  know  it  when 
he  saw  it.  After  so  many  years'  exclusion,  he 
was  certain  he  should  feel  the  atmosphere  of 
the  place  where  he  could  work.  And  there  he 
would  stay  till  he  finished,  till  he  produced  the 
big  thing  that  was  in  him.  Thus,  regilded,  he 
would  return  to  her  again.  One  more  effort, 
once  more  to  feel  his  power,  once  more  to  hear 
the  stimulating  rush  of  praise, — then  he  would 
give  it  up  again,  quite  content  to  sit  beneath 
his  wine-glass  till  the  end.  But  this  first. 

"So  I  put  him  down  where  I  have  told  you, 
on  a  lonely  island.  Somewhat  north  of  the 
Equator,  ten  thousand  miles  away  from  Her. 
Wistfully,  he  said  it  was  quite  the  right  spot. 
He  could  feel  it.  So  we  helped  him,  the  China- 
[228] 


UNDER  A   WINEGLASS 


boys  and  I,  to  build  a  little  hut,  up  on  stilts, 
thatched  with  palm  leaves.  Very  desolate  it 
is.  On  all  sides  the  burnished  ocean,  hot  and 
breathless.  And  the  warm,  moist  heat,  close 
around,  still  and  stifling.  Like  a  blanket, 
dense,  enveloping.  But  he  said  it  was  the 
spot.  I  don't  know.  He  has  been  there  now 
three  years.  He  said  he  could  do  it  there — if 
ever.  From  time  to  time  I  stop  there,  if  the 
passengers  are  willing  for  a  day  or  two's  de 
lay.  He  looks  very  old  now,  and  very  thin, 
but  he  always  says  it's  all  right.  Soon,  very 
soon  now,  the  manuscript  will  be  ready.  Next 
time  I  stop,  perhaps.  Once  I  came  upon  him 
sobbing.  Landing  early  in  the  morning, 
slipped  ashore  and  found  him  sobbing.  Head 
in  arms  and  shoulders  shaking.  It  was  early 
in  the  morning  and  I  think  he'd  sobbed  all 
night.  Somehow,  I  think  it  was  not  for  the 
gift  he'd  lost — but  for  Her. 

"But  he  says  over  and  over  again  that  it  is 
the  right  spot — the  very  right  place  in  the 
world  for  such  as  he.  Told  me  that  I  must 
not  mind,  seeing  him  so  lonely,  so  apparently 
depressed.  That  it  was  nothing.  Just  the 
Tropics,  and  being  so  far  away,  and  perhaps 
[229] 


CIVILIZATION 


thinking  a  little  too  much  of  things  that  did  not 
concern  his  work.  But  the  work  would  surely 
come  on.  Moods  came  on  him  from  time  to 
time,  which  he  recognised  were  quite  the  right 
moods  in  which  to  work,  in  which  to  produce 
great  things.  His  genius  was  surely  ripe  now 
— he  must  just  concentrate.  Some  day,  very 
shortly,  there  would  be  a  great  rush,  he  should 
feel  himself  charged  again  with  the  old,  fine 
fire.  He  would  produce  the  great  work  of  his 
life.  He  felt  it  coming  on — it  would  be  fin 
ished  next  time  I  called. 

"This  is  the  next  time.  Shall  we  go?" 
asked  the  Captain. 

Accordingly,  within  a  day  or  two,  the  small 
coastwise  steamer  dropped  her  anchor  in  a 
shallow  bay,  off  a  desert  island  marked  with  a 
cross  on  the  Captain's  chart,  and  unmarked 
upon  all  other  charts  of  the  same  waters.  All 
around  lay  the  tranquil  spaces  of  a  desolate 
ocean,  and  on  the  island  the  thatched  roof  of 
a  solitary  hut  showed  among  the  palms.  The 
Captain  went  ashore  by  himself,  and  presently, 
after  a  little  lapse  of  time,  he  returned. 

"It  is  finished,"  he  announced  brieny,  "the 
great  work  is  finished.  I  think  it  must  have 
[230] 


UNDER  A   WINEGLASS 


been  completed  several  weeks  ago.  He  must 
have  died  several  weeks  ago.  Possibly  soon 
after  my  last  call." 

He  held  out  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  was 
written  one  word,  "Beloved." 


[231] 


' 


CHOLERA: 


IX 


CHOLERA 

THERE  is  cholera  in  the  land,  and  there  is 
fear  of  cholera  in  the  land.  Both  are  bad, 
though  they  are  different.  Those  who  get 
cholera  have  no  fear  of  it.  They  are  simple 
people  and  uneducated,  fishermen  and  farm 
ers,  and  little  tradesmen,  and  workers  of  many 
kinds.  Those  who  have  fear  of  cholera  have 
more  intelligence,  and  know  what  it  means. 
They  have  education,  and  their  lives  are  bigger 
lives — more  imposing,  as  it  were,  and  they 
would  safeguard  them.  Those  who  are  afraid 
are  the  foreigners  and  the  officials,  yes,  even 
the  Emperor  himself.  Is  he  afraid,  the  Em 
peror?  One  can  but  guess.  He  has  spent 
many  weeks  of  this  hot  summer,  when  cholera 
was  ravaging  his  country,  in  his  summer  palace 
at  Nikko.  There  he  was  safe.  And  cholera 
spread  itself  throughout  the  land,  in  the  sea 
ports,  in  the  capital,  across  the  rice-fields  to 
[235] 


CIVILIZATION 


the  inland  villages,  taking  its  toll  here  and 
there,  of  little  petty  lives.  But  dangerous  to 
the  Emperor,  these  lives,  afflicted  or  cut  short, 
whichever  happens.  So  he  is  staying  safe  at 
Nikko,  in  seclusion,  waiting  for  the  cool  of 
Autumn  to  come  and  purge  his  land. 

Once  he  was  to  come  back  to  Tokyo,  to  his 
capital.  For  September  waned  and  he  was 
due  there,  the  Son  of  Heaven,  due  in  his  capi 
tal.  Many  of  his  subjects  came  to  the  station 
at  Nikko  on  the  day  appointed  for  his  de 
parture,  stepping  with  short  steps  in  their  high 
clogs,  tinkling  on  the  roadside  in  their  clogs, 
scratching  in  their  sandals.  They  came  in 
crowds  to  the  station,  at  the  hour  when  he  was 
due  to  enter  the  royal  train.  But  when  the 
time  came  for  his  departure,  he  did  not  go. 
He  would  tarry  awhile  longer  at  Nikko.  So 
the  crowds  were  disappointed  and  did  not  un 
derstand.  Rumour  had  it  that  cholera  had  de 
veloped  in  the  royal  household  itself — the  Pur 
veyor  to  the  Palace,  so  it  was  stated,  had  con 
tracted  the  disease.  A  fish  dealer,  bringing 
fish  to  the  palace,  had  brought  cholera  with 
him.  So  the  Emperor  tarries  at  Nikko,  and 
the  highroad,  behind  the  Imperial  Palace  in 
[236] 


CHOLERA 


Tokyo  is  closed  to  the  public,  lest  any  poor 
coolie,  strolling  by,  should  become  ill  and 
bring  this  dread  thing  near  to  the  precincts  of 
the  Son  of  Heaven. 

The  foreigners  are  very  careful  as  to  what 
they  eat.  They  avoid  the  fruits,  the  ripe,  rich 
Autumn  figs,  and  the  purple  grapes,  and  the 
hard,  round,  woody  pears,  and  the  sweet  butter 
and  many  other  things.  Oh,  these  days  the 
rich  foreigners  are  very  careful  of  themselves, 
and  meal  times  are  not  as  pleasant  as  they 
used  to  be.  They  discuss  their  food,  and  won 
der  about  it.  And  because  there  is  cholera, 
rife  in  the  ports,  and  among  the  fishermen  and 
sailors,  the  authorities  have  closed  the  fish 
market  of  Tokyo.  The  great  Nihom-Bashi 
market,  down  by  the  bridge,  the  vile,  evil 
smelling  fish  market,  lying  along  the  sluggish 
canal,  is  closed.  The  canal  is  full  of  straw 
thatched  boats.  It  all  smells  very  nasty  in  that 
quarter,  it  smells  like  cholera.  No  wonder 
there  is  cholera,  with  that  smell.  No  wonder 
the  great  market  is  closed.  So  the  baskets  of 
bamboo  are  empty,  turned  upside  down,  for 
there  is  no  fish  in  them.  The  people,  bare 
legged,  nearly  naked,  stand  idly  about  the 
[237] 


CIVILIZATION 


empty  fish  market,  and  talk  together  of  this 
fear  which  is  abroad,  which  has  ruined  their 
trade.  What  is  this  fear?  They  cannot  under 
stand.  They  do  not  know  it.  Only  the  Em 
peror  cannot  eat  fish  now,  for  some  reason, 
and  their  business  is  ruined  because  of  his 
caprice. 

It  is  very  hot.  All  summer  has  this  great 
heat  continued,  and  it  makes  one  nervous. 
Day  after  day  it  lasts,  unbroken,  always  the 
same,  unavoidable.  There  is  no  escape  from 
the  stifling  dampness  of  it — one  cannot 
breathe.  Over  all  the  land  it  is  like  this,  this 
heavy,  sultry  heat.  It  is  no  cooler  when  it 
rains,  no  dryer  when  the  hot  sun  shines.  It 
is  enveloping,  engulfing.  In  the  big  hotel,  the 
leather  shoes  of  the  foreigners  become  mouldy 
overnight,  and  the  sweat  runs  in  streams  from 
the  brown  bodies  of  the  rickshaw  boys.  The 
rickshaw  boys  of  the  big  hotel  wear  clothes, 
long  legged,  tight  cotton  trousers,  and  flap 
ping  white  coats.  This  is  to  save  the  feelings  of 
the  foreigners  and  the  missionaries,  who  be 
lieve  that  clothing  should  always  be  worn,  even 
in  hot  weather.  So  as  the  rickshaw  boy  runs 
along,  one  can  see  his  white  coat  grow  damp 
[238] 


CHOLERA 


between  the  shoulder  blades,  then  wet  all 
across  the  back,  till  it  is  all  wet  and  sticks  to 
him  tight.  Yet  it  is  more  modest  to  wear 
clothes,  when  doing  the  work  of  a  horse.  One 
does  not  object  to  a  man  doing  the  work  of  a 
horse,  provided  he  dress  like  a  man.  But  the 
coolies  toiling  at  the  log  carts,  and  the  little 
tradesmen  in  their  shops,  wear  few  clothes, 
because  they  are  independent  of  the  foreigners. 
Therefore  they  seem  to  suffer  less  with  the 
heat,  or  to  suffer  less  obviously.  Ah,  but  the 
heat  is  intense,  overwhelming!  Day  after  day, 
one  cannot  breathe.  And  in  it,  cholera  goes 
on. 

They  say  a  typhoon  is  coming.  Word  has 
come  from  Formosa  that  a  typhoon  is  rushing 
up  from  the  southern  seas,  from  Hong  Kong, 
the  Equator,  wherever  it  is  they  come  from. 
It  will  reach  us  to-night.  That  will  be  better. 
The  heat  will  go  then,  blown  from  the  land 
by  the  gigantic  blast  of  the  typhoon,  zig-zag- 
ging  up  the  coast  from  Formosa.  Well,  it  is 
late  September — this  unnatural  heat, — why 
will  it  not  leave?  Why  must  it  linger  till  torn 
like  a  blanket  from  the  sweating  earth,  by  this 
hurricane  from  the  Southern  seas? 
[239] 


CIVILIZATION 


Only  it  did  not  come — the  typhoon.  They 
said  it  would,  but  it  failed.  Has  it  gone  shoot 
ing  off  into  the  Pacific,  futile?  So  the  damp, 
stifling  heat  lingers,  and  the  toll  of  cholera 
rolls  slowly  upward  day  by  day. 

It  is  a  long  way  from  Nikko  to  Tokyo  by 
motor.  A  hundred  miles,  when  one  can  cross 
the  bridge,  but  the  bridge  is  washed  away  now, 
so  a  detour  of  many  more  miles  is  necessary, 
to  ferry  the  motor  across  the  Tonegawa  on  a 
flat  bottomed,  frail  boat.  The  motor  sinks 
nearly  to  the  hubs  in  the  blazing,  glaring  sands 
of  the  dry  river  bed,  and  many  naked  coolies 
are  needed  to  push  and  pull  it  through  the  hot 
sands,  and.  work  it  into  the  boat.  In  the  glar 
ing  sun  of  noon,  the  broad  river  lies  motionless, 
like  a  sheet  of  glowing  steel.  Children  bathe 
in  the  river,  and  the  sweating  coolies  dip  their 
brown  bodies  in  it,  and  the  sun  beats  down 
pitiless.  A  junk  gets  loose  from  its  moorings, 
and  drifts  down  stream,  stern  first,  on  the  slow 
current.  Who  cares?  No  one.  It  will  beach 
itself  presently,  on  a  mud  flat,  and  can  be  re 
covered  towards  evening.  The  great  heat  lies 
over  all  the  land,  and  cholera  is  in  the  slowly 
flowing  water,  and  the  fishermen  and  the 
[240] 


CHOLERA 


coolies  and  the  children  live  and  work  and  play 
by  the  river  bank,  and  they  have  no  fear  of  it, 
because  they  are  ignorant. 

From  Nikko  to  the  capital,  the  road  runs 
through  village  after  village,  endlessly,  mile 
after  mile.  On  each  side  of  the  village  street 
are  straw  thatched  houses,  and  along  the  roads 
coolies  bend  under  great  loads,  carried  on  poles 
across  their  shoulders.  Black  bulls  drag  giant 
loads  on  two  wheeled  carts,  their  masters 
straining  beside  them.  The  bulls'  mouths  are 
open,  their  tongues  hang  out,  and  saliva  drools 
out  in  streams.  It  leaves  a  wet,  irregtilar 
wake,  in  the  dust  of  the  roadside,  behind  the 
carts.  By  and  by,  the  men  will  stop  for  food 
and  drink.  They  cannot  choose  what  it  shall 
be.  They  cannot  afford  to  choose.  But  the 
food  of  the  Emperor  is  carefully  selected. 
Physicians  examine  those  who  handle  it,  who 
bring  it  to  the  Palace,  to  see  that  they  are  in 
good  health.  They  examine  the  food,  disin 
fect  it,  see  to  its  cooking.  News  of  this  is  in 
the  papers  each  day,  not  to  show  that  the  Em 
peror  is  afraid,  but  to  set  an  example  to  his 
subjects. 

In  the  houses  along  the  roadside,  little 
[241] 


CIVILIZATION 


tradesmen  are  at  work,  all  naked  in  the  heat. 
Or  else  they  are  bathing.  For  all  along  the 
high  road  from  Nikko  to  the  capital,  following 
its  every  bend  and  turning,  runs  a  ditch  or 
channel  filled  with  water.  Sometimes  the 
water  is  clean  and  rushing,  sometimes  foul  and 
stagnant  and  evil  smelling.  And  all  the  way 
along  the  high  road  people  are  bathing  in  this 
ditch  or  channel,  in  the  foul  or  running  water, 
as  it  happens.  They  stand  naked,  knee  deep, 
men  and  children,  while  the  women  wash  and 
bathe  also,  but  more  modestly.  Also,  besides 
their  bodies,  they  wash  much  else  in  this  long 
ditch, — clothes,  pots,  what-not.  Very  dirty 
seems  this  channel,  sewer,  bath  tub,  as  you 
please.  And  cholera  is  abroad  in  the  land. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  temples  sits  the  image 
of  Binzuru.  Long  ago,  when  history  was  new 
and  the  gods  were  young,  Binzuru,  one  of  the 
sixteen  great  disciples,  broke  his  vow  of  chas 
tity  by  remarking  on  the  beauty  of  a  woman. 
So  he  was  put  outside  the  temples.  His  image 
no  longer  rests  upon  the  altars,  with  those  of 
the  calm,  serene  ones.  He's  disgraced,  ex 
pelled,  no  longer  fit  to  sit  upon  the  altars,  with 
the  cold,  serene  ones,  in  their  colossal  calm. 
[242] 


CHOLERA 


He's  so  human  now,  outside  the  temples. 
Sitting  on  a  chair  for  human  beings  to  touch 
him,  now  he's  off  the  altar,  he's  in  contact  with 
humanity.  The  devout  ones  rub  his  wooden 
image — there  is  no  bronze  or  gold  in  poor 
Binzuru's  makeup.  So  the  people  rub  his 
wooden  image,  rub  his  ears,  his  head,  his  fore 
head,  rub  his  arms,  his  legs,  his  shoulders. 
How  they  suffer,  human  beings!  How  their 
bodies  ache  and  suffer,  judged  by  poor  Bin 
zuru's  body!  For  if  you  rub  Binzuru  on  the 
part  which  hurts  you  in  your  body,  and  then 
rub  your  body  with  a  hand  fresh  from  Binzuru, 
you  will  be  cured.  Your  pain  will  go.  That's 
true.  Binzuru  is  polished  smooth  and  shining, 
quite  deformed  with  rubbing — his  poor  head's 
a  nubbin !  And  in  gratitude  for  what  he's  done 
for  people,  he  sits  now  on  a  pile  of  cushions, 
one  for  each  new  cure.  Bibs  and  caps  adorn 
him  too,  votive  offerings  from  the  faithful 
whom  he's  cured. 

But  he  is  no  good  for  cholera,  poor  Binzuru. 
You  can't  reach  him  quick  enough  to  rub  his 
stomach,  then  your  own.  Cholera's  too  quick 
for  that.  You  can't  reach  him  soon  enough. 
He  can't  help  in  this. 

[243] 


CIVILIZATION 


Down  the  road  a  stretcher  comes,  swinging 
from  a  bamboo  pole,  carried  on  the  shoulders 
of  two  men.  Over  it  a  mat  is  thrown,  and 
through  the  little  open  triangle  at  one  end,  you 
see  a  pair  of  brown  legs  lying.  Only  legs,  no 
more.  Drawn  up  stiffly,  toes  clinched. 

Here  in  the  hospital  they  lie  in  rows,  very 
quiet.  Not  an  outcry,  not  a  murmur.  Every 
thing  is  swimming  in  carbolic.  The  nurses 
wear  masks  across  their  mouths  and  noses. 
They  come  and  go  in  clogs,  barefooted,  and 
splash  through  the  carbolic  on  the  floors.  This 
is  cholera.  These  people,  lying  so  quietly  upon 
their  hard  pillows,  have  cholera.  It  is  not  spec 
tacular.  All  are  poor  folk,  fishermen,  sailors, 
farmers,  shopkeepers,  all  the  ignorant,  the  stu 
pid,  who  were  not  afraid.  One  is  dying.  Nose 
pinched,  gasping,  bathed  in  sweat.  The  hot 
air  can't  warm  him.  He  is  dying,  cold. 

So  there  is  cholera  in  the  land,  and  fear  of 
cholera.  Those  who  were  not  afraid  have 
cholera.  With  them  it  is  a  matter  of  a  few 
days  only,  one  way  or  the  other.  But  those 
who  have  fear  of  cholera  have  something  which 
lasts  much  longer,  weeks  and  weeks.  Till  the 
heat  breaks.  Till  the  typhoon  comes. 
[244] 


COSMIC  JUSTICE 


COSMIC  JUSTICE 

YOUNG  Withers  bought  out  his  uncle's  firm 
of  Withers,  Ltd.,  importers.  He  had  been  as 
sociated  with  his  uncle  for  some  years,  as  a 
minor  partner,  and  how  he  could  manage  to 
take  over  the  prosperous  Withers,  Ltd.  with 
out  capital,  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  finance 
that  do  not  concern  us.  Suffice  it  that  he  did, 
everything  included,  the  big  godowns  on  the 
quais,  shipping  rights,  the  goodwill,  stock  and 
fixtures,  and  the  old  compradore,  Li  Yuan 
Chang.  Most  particular  was  old  Mr.  Withers 
that  Li  Yuan  Chang  should  be  included. 
"You  will  never  find  a  better  compradore," 
he  had  explained  over  and  over,  "in  fact,  the 
business  will  go  to  pieces  without  him."  Pre 
sumably  old  Mr.  Withers  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about,  for  Li  had  been  his  interpreter, 
his  accountant,  his  man  of  affairs  for  years.( 
So  of  course  young  Withers  made  no  objec- 
[247] 


CIVILIZATION 


tion,  and  considered  that  he  was  very  fortu 
nate  in  having  Li  stay  with  him,  after  the  turn 
over.  For  old  Li  was  rich  enough  to  retire 
by  this  time,  no  doubt,  as  compradores  always 
find  means  to  put  away  something  year  by 
year  over  and  above  their  salaries.  But  he 
was  scrupulously  honest — old  Mr.  Withers  had 
full  and  complete  trust  in  him,  and  explained 
to  his  nephew  that  he  could  leave  Tientsin 
from  time  to  time,  for  as  long  a  time  as  he 
liked,  in  fact,  and  could  be  sure  meanwhile 
that  old  Li  would  look  out  for  his  interests. 

"Just  be  careful  of  him,"  he  explained. 
"He's  really  invaluable.  But  be  a  little  care 
ful  of  him — considerate,  I  mean — he's  not  very 
strong " 

"Chandoo?"  asked  young  Withers  suspi 
ciously,  by  which  he  meant,  was  Li  addicted  to 
smoking  that  cheapest  form  of  opium,  the 
refuse  and  scrapings,  which  was  the  only  grade 
that  all  but  the  richest  could  afford. 

"Oh  never,"  replied  old  Mr.  Withers, 
"never.  In  all  the  years  I've  had  him.  Never 
touches  a  pipe.  Temperate  and  austere  in  all 
things,  to  a  degree.  But  he  is  getting  old  now 
and  needs  humouring — likes  to  feel  his  impor- 
[248] 


COSMIC    JUSTICE 


tance,  does  not  care  to  be  overlooked  in  the 
way  young  men  may  be  inclined  to  overlook 
him, — his  work,  I  mean.  Besides,  he's  not 
very  strong,  rather  delicate  in  fact,  so  you  must 
be  easy  with  him.  But  you'll  never  get  a  bet 
ter  compradore,  and  he's  good  for  many  years 
yet — or  until  you  learn  the  ropes." 

After  which  old  Mr.  Withers  concerned  him 
self  very  earnestly  in  the  preparations  for  his 
departure,  for  he  was  leaving  China  for  a  bet 
ter  land, — England,  I  mean. 

Young  Withers  set  about  learning  the  busi 
ness  under  the  direction  of  old  Li.  Which 
greatly  complimented  old  Li,  who  liked  being 
deferred  to  by  a  European.  And  young 
Withers  being  very  easy-going,  and  having 
fallen  into  a  business  which  required  no  up 
building,  being  already  in  its  stride,  most  suc 
cessful,  he  left  a  good  many  of  the  details  to 
his  compradore,  and  bragged  about  him  a 
good  deal,  saying  that  indeed  he  had  inherited 
from  his  uncle  a  most  wonderful  and  compe 
tent  man  of  affairs.  Therefore  he  was  greatly 
astonished  one  day,  about  two  years  after  his 
accession,  when  Li  asked  for  a  vacation — a 
long  one. 

[249] 


CIVILIZATION 


"Want  go  America,"  explained  the  Chi 
nese  succinctly.  Young  Withers  was  dumb 
founded. 

"But  you  can't  go  America!"  he  explained, 
"no  can  go.  What  become  of  business  here  in 
Tientsin  if  you  go  America?  No  can  do." 

Li  had  had  his  own  way  about  many  things 
during  a  great  number  of  years,  and  opposi 
tion,  no  matter  from  what  motives,  meant 
nothing  to  him.  He  settled  his  big  horn  spec 
tacles  more  firmly  on  his  nose,  and  flecked  in 
visible  dust  from  his  rich  black  brocade  coat. 

"Want  go  America,"  he  repeated  without 
emphasis. 

"Whatever  for?"  asked  young  Withers,  to 
whom  a  desire  to  go  to  America  was  incom 
prehensible.  He  himself  had  never  felt  a  de 
sire  to  go  to  America,  and  that  his  old  com- 
pradore  should  be  so  obsessed  was  past  his  un 
derstanding.  Besides,  he  could  imagine  some 
what  what  would  befall  the  old  gentleman, 
who  after  many  years  was  only  able  to  speak 
pidgin-English,  who  never  wore  European 
clothes,  and  who  had  managed  to  retain  his 
magnificent  queu  in  spite  of  all  the  troubles 
following  the  Boxer  business.  Old  Withers 
[250] 


COSMIC   JUSTICE 


had  managed  to  preserve  Li's  queu  for  him. 
Took  him  into  his  compound  and  sheltered  him, 
and  finally  got  a  permit  from  the  Legation 
to  allow  him  to  wear  it.  Li  was  enormously 
proud  of  this  queu,  which  was  long  and  thick 
and  glossy,  and  its  length  enhanced  by  a  black 
silk  cord,  neatly  plaited  in  towards  the  end — 
altogether,  it  came  nearly  down  to  his  heels, 
the  envy  and  admiration  of  many  a  Chinese 
gentleman  who  had  been  abruptly  shorn  be 
fore  help  arrived.  Young  Withers  visualised 
his  dignified  compradore  the  figure  of  fun  to 
irreverent  American  crowds.  He  sincerely 
wished  to  preserve  him  from  what  he  felt  must 
be  an  unpleasant  experience.  He  was  even 
more  anxious  to  protect  his  old  friend  from 
what  would  probably  be  in  store  for  him,  than 
through  any  selfish  desire  to  retain  his  services. 
"Come  back  again  four  month,"  observed 
Li.  "Not  long  time.  Want  to  go."  Young 
Withers  sighed.  It  was  impossible  to  explain 
to  the  old  man.  There  were  pitfalls  and  pit 
falls,  he  well  knew.  Yet  he  had  never  been  to 
America  himself,  so  could  not  speak  from  ex 
perience.  Only  the  evening  before  he  had 
been  dining  in  company  with  a  wise  woman 
[251] 


CIVILIZATION 


of  sorts,  a  French  lady  who  had  lived  in  a  cave 
in  Tibet  for  some  years,  pursuing  reluctant 
hermits  into  their  mountain  fastnesses  in  or 
der  to  obtain  elucidation  on  certain  Buddhist 
books.  She  had  told  him  frankly  that  she  was 
bound  back  again  for  her  cave,  or  for  the  wilds 
of  Mongolia,  but  never,  under  any  circum 
stances,  could  she  trust  herself  to  the  risks  of 
American  civilization.  Young  Withers  tried 
to  explain  something  of  this  to  the  old  man, 
who  was  very  patient  and  did  not  interrupt 
him,  but  the  seed  was  falling  on  barren  ground. 
If  he  could  just  understand  English  better, 
thought  Withers,  I  might  be  able  to  make  him 
see.  So  Withers'  oratory  was  lost,  to  a  large 
degree,  and  when  he  came  to  a  pause  Li  re 
peated,  without  emphasis, 

"Want  go  America." 

"But  you're  too  old!"  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  exasperated  by  such  obstinacy.  "Too — 
you're  too — you're  not  strong  enough.  You're 
too — delicate " 

"Want  go  America.     Four  month.     Come 

back  then,"  said  Li,  and  Withers  gave  it  up. 

Two  weeks  later  Li  was  standing  on  the  deck 

of  a  small  Japanese  liner  bound  from  Tientsin 

[252] 


COSMIC   JUSTICE 


to  Kobe,  from  which  port  he  would  transship 
to  a  larger  Japanese  liner  bound  for  San  Fran 
cisco.  He  took  with  him  many  bundles  of  odd 
sizes,  wrapped  in  coarse  blue  cotton,  seem 
ingly  of  no  value.  He  waved  a  dignified  fare 
well  from  the  rail,  and  young  Withers,  on  the 
dock,  watched  the  departure  of  his  old  com- 
pradore  with  infinite  misgivings. 

Four  months,  including  the  passage  both 
ways,  proved  much  too  long  a  time  in  which  to 
see  America.  Li  returned  unexpectedly  one 
day,  within  half  that  time,  a  silent  and  broken 
man.  His  blue  bundles,  whatever  their  mys 
tery,  were  gone,  his  rich  brocade  coat  was 
gone,  and  gone  also  was  his  confidence  and 
trust  in  human  kind.  Only  his  thick,  glossy, 
long  queu  remained  to  him, — that,  and  a  sin 
gular  taciturnity.  Whatever  his  experiences, 
no  word  would  he  speak  concerning  them — 
he  preserved  a  rigid  silence.  Something  had 
:  been  broken  in  the  old  man,  there  beyond  the 
seas,  and  whatever  had  befallen  him  was  ab 
horrent  and  unspeakable.  He  seemed  very 
much  older,  very  much  more  frail,  and  his  thin, 
fine  hands  were  always  trembling  in  a  manner 
unaccustomed.  Young  Withers  was  in  dis- 
[253] 


CIVILIZATION 


tress,  for  Li's  distress  was  so  obvious,  his  sin 
gular  reticence  making  him  suffer  still  more. 

"Those  thugs  in  San  Francisco  must  have 
cleaned  out  the  old  fellow  first  day  on  shore," 
he  concluded,  and  then  thought  no  more  about 
it.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  old  man,  however, 
pitiful  to  watch  him  going  about  his  duties  with 
the  recollection  of  his  terrible  days  in  the  New 
World  undermining  his  spirits  and  vitality. 
The  secret,  whatever  it  was  that  had  befallen 
him,  was  sapping  his  frail  strength.  Only  on 
one  occasion,  several  months  later,  did  he 
bring  up  the  subject.  He  appeared  suddenly 
before  Withers'  desk  one  day,  and  there  was 
an  angry  gleam  in  his  spectacled  eyes. 

"Your  uncle  never  let  me  go  America. 
Twenty  years  with  your  uncle.  Very  good 
man.  Never  can  go."  He  turned  away 
abruptly. 

"By  Jove,"  thought  young  Withers  to  him 
self,  "the  old  chap's  holding  me  responsible. 
Blaming  it  all  on  me.  I  like  that!"  and  he 
laughed  a  little,  uneasily.  These  Chinese  were 
queer  ones.  You  never  knew  how  they  stood. 

The  firm  of  Withers,  Ltd.  was  very  busy. 
Every  week  or  so  ships  came  into  the  harbour 
[254] 


COSMIC   JUSTICE 


with  boxes  and  bales  of  European  mer 
chandise  of  a  rather  shoddy  kind,  intended  for 
the  markets  of  North  China.  And  there  was 
much  business  in  transferring  these  boxes  and 
bales  to  the  big  godowns,  with  their  heavy  iron 
doors  and  windows,  in  checking  them  up,  sort 
ing  them  out — in  short,  all  the  sort  of  activity 
that  goes  with  a  firm  of  importers,  such  as  this 
one.  Also  there  was  much  business  in  dis 
tributing  these  boxes  and  bales,  or  rather  the 
contents  thereof,  to  the  railway  station,  for 
shipment  to  Peking  and  to  remote  provinces 
in  the  north  and  west.  In  Peking,  these 
shoddy  goods  were  made  into  smaller  bales, 
and  laden  on  camels,  for  some  far  off,  remote 
destination  in  the  interior.  This  took  Withers 
frequently  to  Peking,  leaving  old  Li  in  charge 
of  the  godowns  in  Tientsin.  Withers  always 
took  charge  of  this  end  of  the  business,  be 
cause  of  the  opportunity  it  offered  to  get  away 
from  daily  contact  with  his  old  compradore. 
Somehow,  he  felt  rather  uneasy  in  the  old 
man's  presence.  There  was  a  change  in  his 
manner,  most  marked.  Again  and  again 
that  remark  occurred  to  him,  and  again  and 
again,  in  the  compradore's  presence,  Withers 
[255] 


CIVILIZATION 


was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  undefinable  hos 
tility.  He  holds  me  responsible,  he  thought, 
absurd,  but  that's  what  it  is.  Because  I  did  not 
prevent  him  from  going  to  America.  Therefore 
Withers  was  very  glad  to  go  to  Peking  from 
time  to  time,  for  he  liked  the  excitement  of  the 
barbaric  capital,  and  besides,  he  thought  it 
would  be  good  for  Li  to  be  quite  on  his  own  in 
charge  of  the  godowns,  and  might  distract  his 
thoughts  from  that  obsession  which  was  prey 
ing  upon  him. 

One  day,  after  an  absence  of  two  weeks, 
young  Withers  returned  to  his  Tientsin  office, 
which  wore  a  somewhat  deserted  air.  The 
shroff  was  clicking  on  his  abacus,  and  left  off 
snicking  the  beads  up  and  down  to  remark  cas 
ually  that  the  compradore  had  gone.  The 
shroff  was  a  young  Chinese  who  spoke  excel 
lent,  mission-school  English,  and  wore  good 
European  clothes,  and  he  shared  Withers'  as 
tonishment  that  such  a  thing  had  happened. 

"Wanted  to  go  home,  he  said.  Had  had 
enough  business.  Gone  home  ten  days  ago, 
with  his  family.  Said  say  good-bye  to  you." 

Withers'  first  feeling  was  of  relief.  That's 
that,  he  thought  to  himself,  and  just  as  well. 
[256] 


COSMIC    JUSTICE 


He  stood  eyeing  the  young  Chinese  account 
ant,  and  the  shroff  looked  him  back  fairly  in 
the  eye,  and  the  same  thought  passed  through 
both  minds.  A  younger  man  would  do  just 
as  well  as  compradore,  and  here  was  the 
younger  man  at  hand,  waiting.  "Let's  go 
down  to  the  godowns,"  said  Withers,  and  the 
two  walked  out  of  the  office  together,  in  the 
direction  of  the  quais.  The  shroff  should 
learn  things  from  the  beginning,  and  taking 
charge  of  the  bales  and  boxes  in  the  ware 
houses,  counting  them,  distributing  their  con 
tents,  was  part  of  the  business. 

On  unlocking  the  great,  heavy  doors,  the 
godowns  presented  a  singular  aspect.  Never, 
in  all  the  years  that  young  Withers  had  been 
associated  as  junior  partner  in  Withers,  Ltd., 
and  never  in  the  few  years  since  he  had  become 
Withers,  Ltd.  himself,  had  the  godowns  pre 
sented  such  an  aspect.  They  were  empty. 
Quite,  stark,  utterly  empty.  Not  a  bale,  not 
a  box,  not  a  yard  of  calico  was  to  be  found 
anywhere  about.  The  sunshine  slanted  in 
through  the  open  door,  and  not  a  moat  of  dust 
danced  in  the  rays,  for  nothing  had  been  dis 
turbed  for  some  time,  and  the  dust  was  settled. 
[257] 


CIVILIZATION 


They  went  top-side,  into  the  lofts.  The  same 
thoroughness  presented  itself.  Everything 
had  been  cleared  out,  absolutely. 

'"Stolen!"  exclaimed  Withers. 

"Clean-sweep!"  said  the  shroff,  in  his  mis 
sion-school  English. 

"Ruined!"  added  Withers  to  himself. 

Together  they  hurried  back  to  the  office  and 
examined  things.  It  was  evident  in  a  moment 
how  it  had  been  done.  Withers  had  signed 
an  order  for  the  removal  of  five  boxes.  The 
compradore  had  deftly  added  a  cipher  and 
raised  it  to  fifty.  And  so  on.  Done  repeat 
edly,  with  neatness  and  precision,  over  With 
ers'  own  signature.  No  wonder  the  streets 
about  the  godowns  had  presented  an  air  of  ac 
tivity  at  times. 

"We  must  find  him,"  said  Withers,  "catch 
him  quickly,  before  he  has  time  to  dispose  of 
the  money." 

The  old  compradore  had  made  no  effort  to 
hide  his  whereabouts.  There  were  a  dozen  peo 
ple  to  whom  he  had  said  farewell,  telling  them 
that  he  had  now  given  up  work  and  was  retir 
ing  with  his  family  to  his  home  in  the  Western 
Hills.  Over  Jehol  way.  Three  weeks  by 
[258] 


COSMIC   JUSTICE 


cart.  Aye,  his  cart  had  come  down  from  Pe 
king  to  fetch  him,  a  two  days'  journey.  He 
was  not  taking  the  train.  He  had  started 
early  one  morning  in  his  big,  blue-hooded  cart, 
drawn  by  a  gorgeous  yellow  mule,  its  harness 
inlaid  with  jade  stones.  Not  number-one 
jade,  of  course,  but  still  jade,  and  of  value. 
Ten  days  ago  he  had  gone. 

Withers  and  the  shroff  caught  the  first  train 
out  for  Peking,  and  arriving  in  two  hours, 
made  hasty  preparations  for  their  journey. 
They  obtained  a  cart  and  a  mule,  bedding  rolls 
and  tinned  food,  and  by  afternoon  had  set  out 
through  the  West  Gate  of  the  Tartar  City, 
over  the  dusty  plains  towards  the  Western 
Hills.  Over  Jehol  way,  towards  a  village  be 
yond  Jehol,  up  in  the  hills,  where  Li  Yuan 
Chang  had  his  dwelling. 

Travelling  is  slow  in  a  Peking  cart,  and  un 
comfortable.  The  heavy,  springless  vehicle 
lumbered  along,  bouncing  over  the  deep,  dried 
ruts,  at  times  sinking  hub  deep  into  the  dry 
holes.  There  were  times  when  the  road  was 
below  the  level  of  the  adjacent  fields,  so  deep 
below  that  even  the  hood  of  the  cart  was  be 
low  them,  worn  as  they  were  by  centuries  of 
[259] 


CIVILIZATION 


travel.  At  these  times,  the  dust  swept 
through  the  narrow  channel,  blinding.  Once 
or  twice  they  ran  into  a  dust  storm  whirling 
down  from  the  north,  from  the  great  Gobi 
Desert,  beyond.  Then  they  drew  down  the 
curtains  of  the  cart,  suffocating  inside,  tossed 
from  side  to  side,  up  and  down,  by  the  hard 
jolting  of  the  vehicle.  By  night  they  rested 
at  wayside  inns,  sometimes  finding  the  com 
pounds  filled  with  camels,  great  shaggy  brutes 
that  lay  about  at  all  angles,  over  the  courtyard, 
and  snorted  and  nipped  at  the  intruders.  They 
slept  at  night  in  their  cart,  wrapping  up  well 
in  their  bedding  rolls,  shivering  at  times  in  the 
keen  October  wind.  Their  coolies  shared  the 
k'ang  within,  with  the  camel  drivers  and  other 
travellers,  but  Withers  and  the  shroff  pre 
ferred  the  cart,  for  there  were  worse  if  smaller 
animals  than  camels  to  be  found  in  native  hos- 
telries.  Toilsome,  weary  days  succeeded  one 
another,  broken  by  restless  nights,  yet  ever 
they  pushed  westward,  slowly,  laboriously. 

The  coolies  brought  them  news  of  the  way 
side,  gathering  it  each  night  from  the  inns. 
A  great  mandarin  had  passed  that  way  some 
days  ago — a  great  man  surely,  to  judge  by  the 
[260] 


COSMIC    JUSTICE 


length  of  the  axles  of  his  cart,  which  stuck  out 
a  good  foot  beyond  the  hubs,  marking  him  as 
a  man  of  importance.  And  a  great  yellow 
mule,  with  harness  set  with  jade  stones,  and 
the  brasses  polished, — oh,  a  very  rich  man,  evi 
dently!  So  each  night  they  heard  accounts  of 
the  rich  man  who  had  gone  ahead,  with  his  ret 
inue,  his  family  and  servants  and  packmules. 
It  was  well  noised  abroad,  evidently,  through 
the  countryside.  Travellers  coming  from  be 
yond  Jehol  had  met  him  with  his  train,  and 
the  inns  at  which  they  stopped  always  had 
news  of  his  progress,  outward  bound.  In  a 
hurry,  too.  And  very  fearful  of  the  roadside 
dangers.  Always  in  the  compounds  before 
dusk,  fearful  of  highwaymen. 

To  Withers,  the  suspense  of  the  slow  jour 
ney  was  well  nigh  unbearable.  He,  too,  was  in 
a  hurry,  worn  with  fatigue  and  anxiety.  At 
first,  he  had  been  merely  anxious  to  overtake 
the  old  man,  to  obtain  restitution.  But  with 
the  wayside  gossip  prevailing,  other  fears  en 
tered  his  mind.  One  day  at  noon  time,  they 
entered  a  village  apparently  deserted.  The 
heavy  gates  of  the  compounds  were  closed,  not 
a  person  visible  in  the  long,  straggling  street. 
[261] 


CIVILIZATION 


Every  one  had  withdrawn  himself  into  his 
house,  behind  locked  and  bolted  doors.  At  the 
inn,  they  pounded  repeatedly  on  the  gates, 
asking  admission.  Slowly,  after  a  very  long 
time,  the  gates  were  opened  an  inch,  and  it 
could  be  seen  that  there  was  the  pressure  of 
many  men  on  the  inside,  ready  to  slam  and  bar 
them  in  an  instant.  Then,  seeing  they  were 
but  travellers,  they  were  hastily  admitted  into 
the  courtyard,  and  the  gates  closed  and  barred 
again.  Bandits.  A  band  of  them  was  scour 
ing  the  country,  thirty  or  more,  down  from 
Mongolia.  Abject  terror  was  on  every  face. 
The  whole  village  was  under  its  spell. 

"We  must  push  on,"  said  Withers,  "we 
must  hasten."  The  shroff  was  very  fearful, 
but  as  he  was  to  be  compradore  now,  to  do  the 
work  of  a  European,  he  could  not  show  fear. 
But  the  mafu  and  the  coolies  were  too  fright 
ened  to  continue  the  journey,  so  they  were 
left  behind,  and  Withers  and  the  shroff  went 
off  by  themselves.  It  was  very  foolhardy,  he 
told  himself,  it  was  sheer  madness.  But  he 
was  ruined  anyhow,  so  it  did  not  much  matter. 
Only,  he  must  somehow  reach  the  village  three 
[262] 


COSMIC    JUSTICE 


days'  journey  beyond  Jehol — if  only  he  could 
arrive  in  time. 

Very  laborious  was  the  travelling,  and  they 
walked  in  the  wake  of  fear.  They  now  passed 
through  many  deserted  villages,  one  after  an 
other,  locked  and  barred,  that  the  murderous 
band  from  Mongolia  had  ridden  through. 
Only,  they  had  gone  ahead,  the  bandits — per 
haps  they  would  not  be  riding  back  that  way 
again.  Perhaps  they  would  be  going  on,  into 
the  north  again,  after  they  had  finished 

Finished?  Yes,  it  was  a  very  rich  man  they 
were  after, — they  had  asked  for  him  all  along 
the  road.  They  were  trailing  him  to  his  home, 
following  with  great  ease  the  description  of 
the  great  mandarin,  with  the  great  yellow  mule 
with  jade-set  harness,  who  had  gone  by  with 
his  retinue  just  before. 

So  Withers  and  the  shroff  continued  their 
desolate  journey,  day  by  day,  across  the  plains, 
over  such  roads  as  are  not,  save  in  North 
China.  Passing  through  villages  shut  and 
empty,  through  fields  in  which  there  were  no 
workers,  following  in  the  train  of  terror  that 
had  been  spread  over  the  land  by  the  bandits 
from  the  north.  And  the  terror  reached  into 
[263] 


CIVILIZATION 


Withers'  heart,  making  it  cold.  They  do  not 
ivant  us,,  he  said  to  himself,  over  and  over.  We 

are  quite  safe.     But  the  old  man The 

little  shroff,  however,  who  was  also  filled  with 
terror,  did  not  think  they  were  safe  at  all. 
Only  he  must  appear  as  brave  as  a  European, 
so  he  could  only  tremble  inwardly.  Besides 
all  that,  the  big  mule  was  very  difficult  to  man 
age,  and  they  had  to  drag  the  cart  from  the 
deep  ruts  many  times  a  day,  and  each  evening 
when  they  were  most  tired,  they  had  to  calm 
the  suspicions  of  those  within,  and  make  long 
explanations  before  the  inn  gates,  before  they 
could  be  admitted  into  the  compounds. 

They  arrived  at  their  destination  at  dusk 
one  evening,  after  three  weeks'  weary  travel. 
Trembling  fingers  pointed  out  the  house — 
trembling,  but  in  a  manner,  reassured.  At  the 
end  of  the  long  street  they  would  find  the 
house,  a  very  fine  house  indeed — formerly  a 
mandarin's  palace,  they  explained,  but  pur 
chased  a  few  months  ago  by  a  rich  man  who 
had  come  there  with  his  family  to  live.  The 
tired  men  and  tired  mule  pushed  on  through 
the  long  street,  gazed  upon  curiously  by  clus 
tering  Chinese,  huddled  in  doorways.  They 
[264] 


COSMIC   JUSTICE 


came  to  a  high  wall  topped  with  broken  glass, 
a  high,  strong  wall,  surrounding  a  large  com 
pound.  Beyond,  at  the  entrance,  stood  two 
stone  lions,  such  as  mark  the  homes  of  the  rich 
and  great.  But  the  great  stone  guardian  lions 
were  guarding  a  broken  door.  The  high,  red 
lacquered  door  was  split  into  many  pieces,  the 
hinges  holding,  but  the  doors  themselves  split, 
so  that  a  man's  body  could  crawl  through. 

Withers  led  the  way,  the  shroff  following. 
Within,  the  compound  was  deserted.  They 
made  their  way  to  the  doors  of  the  main  house, 
which  had  been  smashed  in.  The  rooms  inside 
were  empty,  stripped,  their  treasures  gone, 
cleaned  out.  Very  much  in  appearance  like 
the  godowns  in  Tientsin.  They  made  their 
way  through  the  silent  compound  into  the 
women's  compound  in  the  rear.  It  was  the 
same — ransacked,  despoiled.  But  there  were 
many  compounds  and  many  houses,  so  together 
they  passed  through  moon  gates,  over  elab 
orate  terraces,  beside  peony  mountains,  and 
summer  houses,  across  delicate  rock  bridges 
with  marble  balustrades.  Silent,  deserted, 
bearing  the  evidence  of  thorough  looting. 

Then,  quite  at  the  rear,  a  woman  appeared, 
[265] 


CIVILIZATION 


the  number-one  wife  of  Li  Yuan  Chang.  She 
peered  round  the  edges  of  a  moon  gate,  hiding 
her  body  behind  it.  She  recognised  Withers 
and  the  shroff  and  came  forward.  She  was 
very  apologetic,  very  embarrassed,  for  she  was 
wearing  coolie  clothes.  Her  own,  she  ex 
plained,  had  been  taken  from  her  by  the  ban 
dits.  Timidly  she  approached  them,  but  the 
timidity  was  embarrassment.  She  was  very  em 
barrassed  to  be  found  in  coolie  clothes,  felt  re 
sentment  at  the  humiliation,  and  apologised 
repeatedly  for  her  appearance.  She  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Then  she  led  the  way 
still  further  to  the  rear,  to  a  compound  quite 
behind  all  the  other  compounds  and  other 
houses  of  the  gorgeous  mandarin's  palace.  The 
last  stand  of  the  defenders.  They  were  scat 
tered  about  the  courtyard  in  all  attitudes,  in 
grotesque  and  uncouth  positions,  all  dead.  She 
pointed  to  a  figure  lying  face  downward,  a 
thin,  elderly  figure,  in  blood- soaked  black  bro 
cade,  with  a  magnificent  queu  lying  at  right 
angles  to  the  dead  body. 

Once  more  she  apologised  for  appearing  be 
fore  the  gentlemen  in  coolie  clothes.  She  felt 
the  disgrace  keenly. 

[266] 


COSMIC   JUSTICE 


"My  husband,"  she  explained  contemptu 
ously,  pointing  to  the  old  compradore,  "was 
unable  to  protect  us.  He  was  always  such  a 
delicate  old  thing." 


[267] 


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•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


APR     2 1998 


MAY  1  0  2000 


12,000(11/95) 


LD  21-100m-7,'40 (6936s) 


YB  68438 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


519791 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

•1 


